Of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey
by zhengjiamei
Summary: Two couples. Two separate rows. Two dozen bottles of butterbeer and firewhiskey. One single night. A Ron-Hermione-Draco-Astoria story that depicts how that simple night changed their once-perfect lives… forever. "There is no such thing as destiny... only different choices."
1. Two Rows and One Good News

[A/N: This story _is_ DH compatible, but not the Nineteen Years Later part. :)]

* * *

CHAPTER 1: Two Rows and One "Good" News

"Ugh!" Hermione Weasley, once Hermione Granger, screamed at Ron, her husband, as soon as she opened the bathroom door. They had been married for a couple of years now, but she still hadn't gotten herself used to her husband's sickening ways.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Ronald?!" she yelled for probably the millionth time since their wedding day. "Clean the _goddamn_ bathroom floor after you finish using the bathroom!"

"Why are you so upset over this?!" Ron yelled back, going red in the face. It matched his mane of red hair perfectly. "If you want me to clean it, then I will! Right now! Merlin, Hermione, you are so fussy! I can't believe we got married!"

"Do it then!" she answered, pointing towards the communal bathroom. "It's disgusting! _You're_ disgusting! I don't want to use the bathroom with your hairballs all over the place!"

Ron marched towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut with a loud bang that echoed all around their rented one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment unit. Hermione sighed, picked up her purse, and, forgetting all about taking a bath, left their unit, slamming the main door as well behind her.

The couple lived in the dingy part of Godric's Hollow, one of the now-peaceful places in the entire wizarding world in the country. Hermione used to love the place – after all, it wasn't everywhere that you could use magic without attracting attention from bystanders – but right now, she felt otherwise. The snow that fell serenely from the evening sky was horrid, the biting cold was revolting, and the small children throwing snowballs at each other were abominable.

Harry and Ginny Potter lived in the main part of the same village. _They have a nice house_, thought Hermione bitterly, _and I don't suppose Harry is as much of a slop as my husband is_. She even had half a mind to go and visit their place, but seeing as how it was Christmas Eve tonight, she knew they couldn't be bothered with her. _And I don't think they'd want to hear about my complaints about Ron tonight._

_What a nice way to start the holidays_, thought Hermione sarcastically. _I can't wait for the New Year. Maybe by then my husband's resolutions would be to be less sloppy and be a lot more familiar with the word "hygiene."_

She pulled the collar of her trench coat up to hide her neck from the bitter climate and trudged to who-knows-where, kicking up flurries of snow from her winter boots as she went.

* * *

"Draco! Come here!" Astoria's voice rang loudly through the closed door of his office from somewhere outside.

_Ugh, what now?_ thought Draco, clearly irritated. He now worked as a respected Auror for the Ministry of Magic, and he was in the middle of sending an owl to the Minister. Although appearances of dark wizards had been greatly diminished since Lord Voldemort's downfall almost a decade ago, the Ministry was nevertheless careful about maintaining the peace and order of the entire wizarding population.

Draco signed the mail with hardly a flourish as Astoria called on him again, her voice louder and more agitated, and gave the mail to his eagle owl, Greg, whom he'd had since his younger days at Hogwarts. Greg clamped the mail tightly in his beak and customarily pecked Draco on the back of his hand before leaving the wide-open, snow-filled windows.

He got up, stretched, and faced the wrath that was his wife as soon as he left his office.

"Where have you been?!" Astoria demanded angrily, her hands on her hips. The lime green cream that was spread thickly over her entire face would've made Draco laugh, if it weren't for the fact that she was fixing him with her icy blue glare. "I've been calling you for a good ten minutes now."

"I was – well, I'm here now," Draco replied curtly. "What do you want?"

Astoria's eyes narrowed threateningly. "Wella found something as she was doing the laundry. In your robe pocket."

"What?" What could that goddamn house-elf have found that would result in this kind of reaction from her?

"_This_." Astoria held up a pair of women's undergarments. "They're not mine," she hissed.

Draco tried to look indifferently at the thong, but his insides were churning. _Damn it!_ he thought wildly. _That Parvati girl! I told her I didn't want them as souvenir!_

"I don't know where those came from," he said, his perfected poker face on.

"Oh, really now?" said Astoria sarcastically. "Then how do you explain this note?"

_There's a note?! _thought Draco, stunned beyond means.

"_Drakie_," Astoria announced dramatically as she read the pink-colored card. "_I enjoyed last night. Thank you so much. XOXO, Parvati_."

Draco cringed, waiting for hell that was surely coming to him.

"What the _fuck _is this, Draco?!" Astoria screamed, spraying saliva on his face. "You're sleeping around with other women again?! I thought we were over that! I'm your wife!"

Draco wished at that moment for the entire ground to swallow him up, not because he had been caught cheating, but because of the embarrassment he felt as he was being bullied by his wife, for he knew that the entire household could hear him as his wife's voice reverberated all around the mansion – the butlers, maids, the elves, _everyone_. He was Draco Lucius Malfoy, for Pete's sake! He was supposed to be the one doing the bullying!

Suddenly, Astoria seemed too much to handle.

"If you never get satisfied with my _skills_ in bed, at least respect me enough _as a person_ to –"

"Shut the _hell_ up, Astoria." Draco hadn't screamed, but it would've been better if he had. His voice was low and dangerous, and his hand itched around the wand that was hidden in his pocket. He wanted to hex something, to hex _her_, just to silence her. But he knew that hexing someone for no reason at all could jeopardize the job he'd worked so long and hard for.

"Are you threatening me?" Astoria retorted, matching his glare with her signature one. "Draco!"

Draco had pushed past her and was making his way down the long marble steps that led to the entrance hall of his inherited manor.

"Where the hell are you going?" Astoria demanded, following him. "Answer me!"

"Away from you," he answered her, his insides fuming. "And what the fuck are you doing, standing around?!" he shouted to the busybodies – butlers and maids – peering around doorframes, looking at the two of them in interest. They jumped and scuttled around as they heard him shout, "Get back to work!"

"Come back here!" Astoria screamed again as he reached the large oak front doors and prepared to open them. "Draco – I'm pregnant, Draco."

Normally, that news would've been enough to make him stumble in his step and kiss his wife in elation – after all, ever since they married in the past three years had they not been able to conceive a child of their own – but right now, however, he was still too full of rage to consider that "good" news.

He didn't pause as he went out the open door into the freezing night.

"I don't care," he mumbled, genuinely not bothered whether his wife heard him or not.


	2. Wrecked

[A/N: This chapter is rated R, as a result of my perverted mind. Don't make me say I told you so. :P]

* * *

CHAPTER 2: Wrecked

To her surprise, Hermione found herself at the Three Broomsticks later on, with her hand wrapped around a large mug filled with the famous Firewhiskey. i_It's not bad_/i, she thought to herself as she finished her second mugful. _Beats Butterbeer by a wide margin. This one gets you wasted quicker. Just what I need._

The entire pub was almost deserted, with everyone probably at home, spending the holiday with their respective families. Only Hermione and a couple of other witches, plus Madam Rosmerta, were there. Madam Rosmerta was behind the counter, polishing glasses, and the two other witches were smoking pipes and enjoying a nice game of wizards' chess. _Ugh. Don't get me reminded about anything that should concern Ron tonight._

She, Ron, and Harry had met each other during their days as young witches and wizards at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Of course, she hadn't known then about Ron's disgusting bathroom habits, because if she had, then maybe she wouldn't have considered marrying him. Maybe _I wouldn't even have liked him in the first place_, she added bitterly, and laughed to herself under her breath. _Maybe I wouldn't even be here, my holiday spent with a beer bottle in hand._

After her fourth tankard, she considered leaving. _If only I could get up and walk around normally… _The influence of alcohol was heavy, and she was known for her low tolerance for alcoholic drinks. And so she slumped in her seat and absentmindedly played with the beer bottle upon the counter, contemplating about staying in for the night.

She didn't bother to raise her head as she heard the tinkle of the bell that came with the indication that someone else had just come in. It didn't matter to her. After all, lots of people came in the Three Broomsticks at midnight, but the new arrival begged to be noticed, for he sat in the swivel chair right next to her on the counter.

"I need a drink," the blond man drawled in his bored voice as Madam Rosmerta came to attend to him.

Hermione turned her head to look at the man and barked out a bitter laugh. "Well, well, well. Look do we have here," she announced theatrically, her words slurring. "Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince." For some reason, that seemed to be funny for her, because she couldn't stop giggling afterwards.

Draco looked at the brunette sitting right next to him, his eyebrow raised. "Do I know you?" he asked, clearly not recognizing her. She was _sinfully _attractive, that was for sure - but how come she knew who he was exactly when he had no idea who _she_ was?

That sent on another round of fresh giggles. "Why?" she asked him, pouting her lips. "Do I look so different now? You and I went to _schwoool _together."

"This woman is clearly intoxicated," said Draco to Madam Rosmerta as she served him his order, gesturing towards Hermione. "Maybe you should consider taking her upstairs to one of your rooms so she could sleep it off."

"Yes, I think so, too," Madam Rosmerta replied. "She's drank her fourth mug of Firewhiskey. That would make just about anyone smashed by now." She turned to Hermione. "Come on now, honey."

Wagging her finger in the air, Hermione said, "No-no-no-no-no-no," to Madam Rosmerta as soon as she prepared to take her upstairs. "I want to talk to this _boy_."

Draco raised his eyebrows but didn't send her off anymore, visibly interested in what she had to say. A grin was even present on his face. "Boy?" he echoed, clearly amused.

"Yes, _boy_." Hermione chuckled. "Tell me, what do you do now, besides taunt _everyone_ whom you consider lower than you are?"

The grin on Draco's face disappeared behind the mug of whiskey as he drank deeply from it. He lowered the drink and glared darkly at her. "And just who do you think you are?" he growled.

"Me? Oh, I'm nobody," she told him, waving him off. "Nobody to the likes of _you_, anyway."

He drank his first mug in three large gulps and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he reached for another. "Don't tempt me, you," he said irately as he glared at Hermione. "I just had a fight with my wife and don't make me get my anger out on you."

"You don't recognize me," she said in a singsong voice, and laughed again. "Oh, this is good! That way, I won't have to feel embarrassed about whatever it is that I say or do tonight. Hahahahaha!"

Draco seemed to have as low a tolerance for alcohol as Hermione did, because, on only his fifth mug of Firewhiskey, his words slurred and he was visibly going red in the face. He bought Hermione some more drinks subconsciously and she drank greedily, the evening passing by. Apparently, it seemed as though they both were unstable drunks. They talked together, laughed together, drank alcohol together, became _more_ intoxicated together - but Draco, oddly, never recognized the stranger who seemed to somewhat soothe his agitated nerves.

"You said you had a fight with your wife," drawled Hermione later on, drinking from what might possibly have been her twelfth. "Why?"

"She caught me cheating on her!" Draco proclaimed proudly, clearly intoxicated by then. "I slept with this - _hot chick_ -" He made an ostentatious gesture with his hands.

"Merlin! You bastard," she reprimanded him, slapping him across the arm, but the seriousness was lost as she was laughing so hard. "I had a row with my husband, too," she admitted sadly, and before she knew it, tears were falling from her eyes like waterfalls.

"You don't say?" he asked in mock-surprise, drinking from his own twelfth mug as well. "Guess we're both heartbroken tonight."

"And it's Christmas Day," she added, sobbing. "Misery _does_ love company."

Hermione slumped forth in the counter, her newly-straightened hair cascading down the polished tabletop, and sobbed loudly. Her emotions seemed to be at the peak now that the alcohol was truly consuming her. "He said I was fussy," she blubbered out, "and that - that - he couldn't believe we got m-m-m-married -"

"Your husband is undeniably imprudent," he consoled her, gently patting her back. "You're a beautiful, feisty woman. I'd much rather have married you than my wife." He made a face.

She looked at him with her tear-stained face. "Really?" she whispered out.

"Really," he admitted, the beautiful brunette enthralling him. And before he could stop himself, he reached for her and kissed her, tasting the alcohol on her tongue.

Hermione couldn't help herself then. She couldn't deny the sweetness that exuded his very kiss - his warm and soft mouth - and she kissed him back, throwing both her arms around his neck and having both their tongues mate. They kissed with a passion not unlike that of old flames, and both of them couldn't remember the time when kissing their own spouses had been this intimate and… _consuming_.

Hermione giggled as the kiss broke. "I feel like a teenager again," she admitted, still clinging on tightly to his neck.

"Guess we know what teenagers do." Draco winked. Tension was clearly present between them - it wasn't the unpleasant one - and they both were aware of that. "We need a room, Rosmerta," he called out drunkenly.

Madam Rosmerta looked at the both of them in disbelief, but, thinking that it was none of her business at all, shrugged and took a key off a hook. "Room 12-B is empty tonight," she told them, giving the small key to Draco. "It's right upstairs, twelfth room on the left."

Draco gave a mock-salute, resulting in another round of fresh giggles from Hermione, and threw down a handful of Galleons on the counter. "For the lady's drinks and mine. Keep the change," he said, and took Hermione's hand and led her to the wooden staircase leading to the upper floors and the rooms.

They certainly were like teenagers again - they stumbled and kissed their way up the steps to their designated room, and as they reached their room they fumbled with the keys and stripped each other bare of the other's clothing, their lips not leaving one another's as soon as they entered.

"You are rounder than my wife," commented Draco as he appraised Hermione's lusciousness, kissing her neck in lust. Hermione's nails dug into the hard, muscled skin on his back.

"And you," moaned Hermione, "are i_thicker_/i than my husband. And _l__onger_- and _harder_ -"

"Merlin, you're good!" he groaned out soon after as Hermione worked the magic of her tongue around his body. "How come I don't recognize you, if we went to school together?" he moaned out in frustration.

"You were a naughty boy back then," mocked Hermione, and took him into her mouth. She normally wouldn't have acted out in this way; liquid courage certainly was taking its hold on her. "You were mean to me."

"I was mean to everyone - _Merlin_!" he cried out again. "Just tell me who the hell you are." He reached out and took her face in his hands, searching for any familiarity as he gazed intently upon it. "You certainly do look familiar, but -"

"Would you rather we have sex, or discuss my identity?" she teased, letting her fingers run up and down his length painstakingly slowly.

His breath caught in his throat. "Sex, please," he spluttered out, and before she knew what had hit her, he had plunged himself to the hilt, burying himself inside her. His hands grasped at the skin on her hips with a pressure not far from violence, and the bed creaked as though it might fall apart with their ravenous needs. They rocked back and forth, each sensation igniting the fire in each of their nerve endings.

Draco had never been full of any remorse in the years he'd spent as Astoria's husband. After all, Astoria was perfect: she was beautiful, she was elite, and she belonged in the high class. His only problem was that she was no good in bed, and so, as a compromise for allowing himself to marry her, he often sought pleasure from others.

He never believed that he could find any _one_ person who could surpass her.

_I should've married _this _girl! _he thought wildly as he spilled his seed into her. The sensation of fulfilling sex was intoxicating.


	3. The Morning After

[A/N: Wow! I am so totally shocked by the number of followers my story has gained after posting only the second chapter. Thank you to the 20 (or so) followers! :)]

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CHAPTER 3: The Morning After

At about half-past nine the following morning, Hermione woke up to the sound of someone's heartbeat directly at her right cheek.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump…_

Her eyes opened slowly and blinked a few times as they struggled to get a clearer view on things, and the first thing that came to her perception was that she slept against a wide expanse of chest and ribbed abdomen.

_Since when did Ron have these abs?_ she thought to herself, impressed, as she caressed the rock-hard stomach with her hand that rested atop it. And then a smile lit up her face. She liked that her husband was finally taking notice of how he looked naked. He was always thin, but never lean and muscular as he was now. Hermione prepared to raise her head and planned to give her husband a kiss on the cheek to congratulate him for his working out, but something took her back.

_Wait a minute… Ron's not _blond_._

The chest with which she'd slept upon, along with it being _too_ pale, was swathed with coarse ice-blond hair. She blinked a few times to get her bearings – her heartbeat was thudding louder and harder against _her_ own chest – and truly raised her head this time to take a closer look at her… _companion_.

"Whoa."

Vertigo made her drop her head back down against the stranger's chest. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her eyeballs rolled back into their sockets and her head felt as though a band of drummers hammered against it. Her entire vision spun. She pressed her fingers against her temples to soothe the relentless pounding in her head and took a deep breath before trying to raise her head once more.

Successfully, she managed to do so, keeping the pounding down to a minimum.

Draco Malfoy's pale, pointed face – peaceful with sleep – greeted her. His lips were slightly parted to make way for his deep breaths, and one of his arms wrapped around her waist possessively. He certainly did look like a god – more beautiful than any other man she had ever seen. The contrast of his face's sharp features with the broadness of his shoulders and bare chest made him look as though he were Eros in the flesh.

_What the hell is _he_ doing here?_ she thought with apprehension, angrily brushing all thoughts of admiration aside. But, in an instant, the previous night's activities made themselves known in her still-befuddled mind, and her chocolate-brown eyes bulged, her mouth hanging open.

The words seemed to echo in her mind. _"You are beautiful…" His soft lips claimed hers, and she kissed him back greedily._

Hysteria made her once-normal breathing quicken and her entire body turn cold. She'd just slept with Draco Malfoy, and she couldn't remember anything else that had happened that night. She strained her mind and tried to remember something – _anything_ – at all.

She could remember him talking to her in the pub at the Three Broomsticks and buying her drinks, but she couldn't remember leaving at all. If her memory was trustworthy – and there was no doubt in her mind that it _was_ – then they were probably still in the Three Broomsticks by then, upstairs in one of the rooms. She carefully extricated herself from Malfoy's grip, peeling her arm from where it was pinned underneath his body, which resulted in his turning to one side and groaning. She held her breath and pleaded desperately for him not to wake up.

He was even more beautiful then – because as he turned, the duvet covering him from the waist-down fell to the floor, and Hermione swallowed convulsively as she gazed upon him.

She shook her head, clearing it of the image, and silently chastised herself. _Damn it, Granger_! Although she was a married woman now, her mind still called her by her maiden name, as it always had.

Finding her clothes was an even more difficult feat, as Hermione's head still pounded from the nasty hangover while she made her way across the grayish room. She couldn't find her panties at all! Desperate to leave immediately, she pulled on her pair of jeans without them and crossed over to the door, shutting it silently without so much as a click.

And, in all the while, Draco Malfoy snoozed on, oblivious to the fact that his "companion" was Apparating her way back to her apartment unit.

* * *

Hermione appeared in front of their worn-down apartment unit a second later, her entire frame shaking. She'd just slept with Draco Malfoy, and she was seeing her husband. She looked down at her wrinkled clothes and a strong scent filled her nostrils, a scent she could only recognize as Malfoy's expensive perfume.

She wanted to run and hide.

_But there is _noway_ that Ron knows about what happened to you last night_, she convinced herself forcefully. _For all he knows, you might've spent the time with your parents._

She nodded fiercely. Yes, she would tell Ron that.

She reached a hand out slowly and turned the ordinary door handle, expecting Ron to come and hex her as soon as she stepped inside their shared home. But he didn't, and so she deliberately took a few steps inside.

"'Mione?" Ron called out, appearing just behind the divider between the living and dining rooms.

Instead of fear, she managed to plaster a huge smile on her face. "Hi, Ron." Her voice noticeably quivered.

"Er, Merry Christmas," he told her, his face reddening slightly.

"Y-you too."

"Where were you last night?"

Hermione struggled to refrain herself from showing any sort of emotion on her face. "I went to my parents'."

She didn't feel worthy of his love then, as he looked at her and came closer. He took one of her hands in his and looked down as he apologized.

"I'm sorry about the bathroom thing." He paused to laugh nervously. "I'll try – no, I _will_ clean it next time, I promise."

Hermione almost laughed, too. After all, it was hard to believe that something so _trivial_ could've resulted in a night spent with Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Draco was used to hangovers. He had them every time he went out with his old school friends Blaise Zabini and Vincent Crabbe during their off days from work. But what he was unused to was finding himself alone in a room, naked (except for his own room), and _this_ didn't look like his room at the Malfoy Manor at all.

The walls were cracked and peeling, the bed too hard, and the pillow too lumpy. And he couldn't remember ever owning the horrific, _unstylish_ old lamp that stood on the bedside table.

He blinked a few times to get his eyes acquainted with the surroundings. Yes, he was most certainly not at home, probably because his friends found someone for him to "play" with last night. The only problem was, _she_ was nowhere to be found, and, judging from the look of the clothes on the floor, she'd already left way before he'd woken up.

That was a first. Normally, he would be the one doing the deserting, and on the rare occasion that the girl would wake up before he did, she would dutifully wait for him to rouse and beg him to call her again although, naturally, he wouldn't. His "companion" abandoning him offended him somehow, and he didn't know the exact reason why. Sighing, he got up gingerly from where he lay in bed and paced the room, picking up his articles of clothing and wearing them as he did. He looked down onto the haphazardly-made bed as he ruffled his blond hair, contemplating whether he should fix it or not, when his eyes caught something.

A pair of lacey white panties peeked out from underneath the lumpy pillow. He picked them up and tucked them into his jeans pocket as souvenir (another first), a smile lighting up his face, because, just then, memories of last night's happenings flooded his mind as soon as he saw the overlooked pair of underwear.

Although everything still seemed fuzzy, he could remember faintly the beautiful brunette with the shoulder-length straight hair and seductive smile, and just how _good_ she was in bed. She was hell of a lot better than all the other girls he'd slept with, and feistier, and sexier, and…

_I wish I'd woken up sooner_, thought Draco regrettably._ Just so I would've had a chance to glance at her face and recognize her_.

He could remember her mentioning that they had gone to Hogwarts together, and actually called him by his name. _But how come I don't remember her?_ he thought in frustration. He was certain that she wouldn't escape his notice at all had he seen her in school even _once_. Maybe she'd lied… but why would she? He knew she had no reason to do so.

He raised his wand from somewhere in his pocket and recited an incantation that had the bed made in an instant, and, as he was leaving a few Galleons for the overnight stay at the bedside table, silently thanked the absent girl for a night to remember.

And _that_ was also a first.

* * *

Mrs. Draco Malfoy, once known as Astoria Greengrass during her maiden days, was curled into a squat armchair at the majestic master bedroom of the Malfoy Manor. Her husband hadn't come home last night, and her eyes were swollen as she'd spent Christmas Eve, alone, crying and bawling her eyes out. She reached for probably her hundredth box of tissue and blew her nose.

She couldn't sum up how many days and how much time she'd spent weeping ever since she'd become Draco's wife. It was daunting to think about it and she cried even harder and louder at that knowledge. She was supposed to be happy, for Pete's sake! She was a Malfoy now, something she'd been dreaming of ever since she'd first laid her eyes on the handsome Draco during their days at Hogwarts. And yet, for some strange reason, she seemed more miserable and upset than ever.

Her unhappiness might have something to do with her polygamous husband's sleeping habits.

Unconsciously, her hand curled around the tiny life that was forming in her belly. _I'm sorry for my selfishness, baby_, she said to it sadly. _I'm supposed to be happy because I want you to be happy, too. Mummy's sorry. Mummy loves you. It's just that – Mummy had a row with your daddy_.

That resulted in heavier sobs that shook her entire frame.

All of a sudden, a tiny pop sounded from somewhere near her elbow, and she looked at it instinctively. Wella, the house-elf, stumbled out, looking disheveled as always.

"Master Malfoy has entered the house," she squeaked, bowing low at the presence of her mistress.

Astoria nodded at the tiny elf and the elf Apparated back to the kitchens. She patted her dark auburn hair consciously and wiped both her eyes and nose on a tissue one last time before waiting for her husband.

Draco finally turned up at the door and went immediately to their closet, visibly refraining himself from glancing at her. She cleared her throat to catch his attention.

"Draco." She made her voice firm, despite whatever it was that she was going through inside.

He grunted to show that he was listening.

"I'm pregnant," she told him, repeating the same words she'd said to him last night before he'd stormed out on her.

Draco noticeably stiffened but didn't make any other indication that he found the news interesting. However, before he left after he'd changed last night's clothes, he stopped in front of where Astoria sat to kiss her forehead lightly.

That gave rise to another round of Astoria's sobs. "Please, Draco," she blubbered as she touched her womb. "No more sleeping around with other women. For the baby. _For me_."

Draco blinked and his gray eyes turned to steel. "Yes, of course," he said simply, almost grudgingly.

But as soon as he'd left, Astoria, despite the tears that were flooding her face once again, looked down to her baby happily.


	4. Fifteen Years Later

CHAPTER 4: Fifteen Years Later

"Hugo, drop the toy broomstick!" commanded Hermione as she ran to catch her small-but-terrible younger child.

Fifteen years may have passed since that "eventful" night with Draco Malfoy, but Hermione had hardly changed in appearance at all, even after having two children. Her skin and hair still glowed luminously and healthily, and she neither packed on nor lost a pound. _Maybe it's because of all this exercise_, she thought to herself wryly as she sweated her way around the newly-acquired comfortable home as she attempted to catch her son. _Rose is harmless, but Hugo… argh! Hugo is just impossible. _But no matter what her son's attributes might've been, she knew she wouldn't bear it if she lost him.

"You are going to be late for your first day!" said Hermione to her little son, who resembled Ron more than anything (except for the height), as soon as she caught him. He wriggled violently in her arms.

"No! I want to practice – I want to be as good as Harry while he had been Seeker!" whined Hugo.

"And you will be," appeased Hermione, "but how will you be able to try out for the Gryffindor team if you don't board the train on time?" She yanked the broomstick from his grip.

"Now go to Daddy," ordered Hermione, and Hugo scuttled off to look for his father.

Hermione placed the broomstick in a shelf high enough for Hugo not to be able to reach and went to her daughter's room at the end of the hallway. She knocked a few times and entered, finding her daughter amidst all the clothes she'd just pulled from her closet.

"There isn't anything to wear," Rose complained loudly as she pulled the yellow cotton sweater – the last item of clothing – from her closet. "I won't look good in _anything_."

Hermione smiled kindly at her first daughter and shut the door behind her. "Honey, you love that sweater."

"Yeah – like, two years ago."

Hermione laughed under her breath. _Teenagers_, she caught herself thinking. "Maybe you need my help," she offered, getting down and pulling a turquoise blue long-sleeved sweater off the floor as well as a knee-length dark brown skirt. "Here, why don't you try these on? Your blue Chucks would complement them nicely," she added.

Rose took her advice and put the articles of clothing on, looking just how Hermione did when she had been her age. Hermione smiled. "Now all we need to do is tie your hair up," she said, and picked up her daughter's hairbrush from the counter.

Minutes later, Hermione found herself braiding Rose's bushy brown hair. No one would deny that they looked more like sisters as they watched each other in front of the mirror. Both had the same *bushy brown hair and wide-set eyes. Rose looked noticeably happier as she gazed at her reflection and she grinned happily at her mother.

"Thanks, Mum," she whispered gratefully as Hermione secured her hair with a pretty elastic.

Hermione's motherly instincts acted up. "Who are we dressing up for?" she asked lightly as she grinned at her daughter's reflection.

Although Rose hadn't said a thing over the summer, Hermione knew that something was different about her. She mostly kept to herself, along with an unexplained number of owls swooping from her bedroom window every single day, so she had a feeling her daughter was finally beginning to develop interest for someone. Of course, she began seeing Viktor Krum when she had been fourteen herself, so she wasn't unaware of her daughter's strange behavior.

Her daughter profusely blushed and giggled. "How do you know?" she asked shyly.

"I'm your mother," was Hermione's simple reply.

"Well," said Rose, giving a shaky laugh, "it's really nothing. It's just, you know, someone from school."

"I'd like to meet him," prompted Hermione gently.

"You kind of did already. You went to school with his daddy." Rose paused. "It's Scorpius," she enthused.

Hermione, whose heartbeat now thundered heavily against her ears, wasn't sure she heard her daughter right. "Scorpius who?" she whispered, although she knew the exact answer already.

Her daughter giggled once more. "Oh, you know, Mummy," she said with slight exasperation. "You heard what Daddy said when I went to Hogwarts the first time, right? 'That's little Scorpius'? Remember?" she pressed on.

Hermione felt the blood in her entire body stop its circulation as she froze, her face fixed with a look not unlike that of one who had just been Stupefied.

"Scorpius _Malfoy_," finished Rose, expecting her mother to become as enthused as she was, or even to _react_ at all.

Hermione, however, could not.

* * *

"Scorpius!" called Astoria from somewhere in the entrance hall of the Malfoys' home. It was the first of September and her son, Scorpius, was attending his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the exact same school where she and Draco had come from and graduated decades ago.

Scorpius Malfoy, now fourteen years old, bounded excitedly down the long, elegant marble stone steps. Grinning, he jumped the last five steps and landed squarely on both of his feet in front of his mother, his blond hair falling into his gray eyes.

Astoria adored her son. Or maybe _adored_ was not the perfect word to sum up for what she really felt for her only child. She loved him dearly, loved him more than her whole life, and would do absolutely anything and everything for him. Her love for her only son was unlike any other love she'd felt before; she loved him just as much as she did his father.

"I'm here!" he announced proudly, pushing his sweaty hair off his eyes. "And in the nick of time, too," he added, glancing at his expensive new gold wristwatch.

Astoria smiled down at her son; he looked so much like a young Draco. "Let's go; your father's waiting outside," she told him, and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. She knew how he felt whenever she tried to grab a hold onto his hand or arm – he was a _teenager_ now – and she knew the shoulder-move would not make him as squeamish or pull away from her. She led her son out the wide double doors of the mansion and into the very kempt front lawn (courtesy of the family gardener), where Draco Malfoy stood, his back to them, his golden hair gleaming in the bright sunlight.

Draco, who heard the indication of the doors opening, turned around and greeted his family. He looked at his beloved son, whom he so fondly named Scorpius, and ruffled his blond hair playfully.

"Excited for this year?" he asked, his eyes an indication of just how much he cherished him.

Scorpius grinned at his father – he idolized him. "Very."

And, to Astoria, Draco asked, his eyes not showing the same level of warmth as usual, "Where is his trunk?"

"Wella's bringing it," replied Astoria, who severely tried not to remove the smile off her face although her heart broke, as it so often did.

Draco's only reply was a short grunt, and turned to his son again.

But if she were to be honest with herself, Astoria knew that Draco had changed drastically since Scorpius entered both of their lives. He became fatherly, showed more concern, and became more of the husband Astoria wanted so desperately for him to be. And, what was more, she knew he'd turned his back on his previous ways: his polygamy.

Although at night, as she made love to him, she knew his heart was never really in it. His heart was never really for her. But Astoria knew she ought to be thankful and appreciative of everything. What her husband had changed into now was the best thing she could've possibly hoped for.

As soon as the wrinkled old house-elf appeared at the door, burdened with Scorpius's trunk filled with many of his brand-new school supplies, Draco took Astoria's hand and held it as they prepared to travel to the Hogwarts Express via Side-Along Apparition.

Astoria almost didn't feel the nauseating squeezing sensation that often took the breath out of her lungs, for the only thing concerning her was the way Draco's warm hand fit so perfectly in hers.

* * *

A split-second later, Draco and his family arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the Hogwarts Express, with the clock just behind the ticket booth indicating that they had exactly fifteen minutes left before the train would depart for school. Draco ordered the house-elf to quickly locate an empty compartment for his son and to load his trunk in, as he and his wife bid their annual goodbyes to their only child.

Astoria enveloped their son in a huge embrace and whispered in his ear something Draco could faintly hear as, "I'll miss you, Scorpius."

Scorpius, who was now almost as tall as his mother, squirmed from her grip. "Aw, Mum!" he complained halfheartedly. "It's not like you'll never hear from me! I promise to send you loads of owls that you'll eventually get tired of receiving them."

Astoria sniffed and wiped her eyes behind the back of her hand. "You'd better do that," she warned, and gave Scorpius one last kiss.

Being emotional was not one of Draco's attributes, and so, as soon as Scorpius was able to get away from his mother, he stiffened and crossed his arms over his chest, giving his son one of his stern looks. "I want to hear you're studying hard, Scorpius," said Draco firmly, cocking his head to one side. "I wasn't very pleased with your Potions marks last year – during my time, I was one of the best in class."

Scorpius grinned. "My Transfiguration was good, though," he mocked lightly.

Draco had no choice but to laugh. "Unlike mine," he said under his breath, and ruffled his son's hair one more time. "Just… study hard. And take care of yourself."

All throughout the goodbyes, though, Draco couldn't help but notice his son's distinct behavior; he seemed to be waiting for someone as he glanced at the wrought-iron archway leading out of the platform from time to time.

"Who are you looking for, son?" asked Draco lightly, but with interest.

Draco could notice his son's change in demeanor. A slight pink tinge appeared on his pale cheeks. "Rosie," he mumbled, and as soon as he'd said it, blushed deeper.

Astoria grinned, visibly a lot more interested than Draco was. "Was she the one who's been sending you all those owls over the summer?" she asked motherly.

"Yes – but that was nothing!" Scorpius blatantly denied, although his now-crimson color said otherwise.

"My little boy's all grown up, having crushes now," mocked Astoria dramatically. Draco grinned, entertained by his son's discomfort.

"It's just a _little_ crush." He held up two fingers close together, as if to show just how little was _little_, when, all of a sudden, he jumped from where he stood.

"There she is!" he exclaimed softly, and Draco and Astoria turned, their eyes following Scorpius's line of vision.

A familiar tall redheaded man, now heavily mustached, entered the archway, followed by his harassed wife and two children, a girl and a boy. The realization of something so silly and ironic made Draco burst out laughing involuntarily. His wife turned to him with surprise and confusion plainly on her face, but he brushed her away lightly.

So ironic that _this_ was Scorpius's first crush's family.

"Rosie… _Weasley_," he said in amazement, more to himself than to anyone else.

How… _interesting_.

* * *

*This is what made it non-Epilogue compliant. The Epilogue showed that Rose Weasley had RED hair, but in my version, she had the same hair as her mother's (Hermione). :) –Nina


	5. More Than One Encounter

CHAPTER 5: More Than One Encounter

Hermione paced their bedroom back and forth - _back and forth_ - nervously, as what was heavily indicated with the way she bit down on her bottom lip tightly and firmly. _How could this have happened_? she kept asking herself. How could her daughter – her lovely Rosie – suddenly have fallen for a Malfoy's cheap and worthless antics? Didn't her daughter realize that all Malfoys were con artists with nothing better to do with their time other than to prey on wholesome, unsuspecting people like her?

_Oh, who the hell are you kidding?!_ she finally conceded, somewhat angrily, to herself. _This isn't about Rosie at all! It's about your stupid fears, Granger. You vowed never to get any contact with Malfoy again after what happened to the both of you that one night for fear that he might _finally_ recognize you._

In frustration, she ran both of her hands suddenly against her hair, almost roughly.

It was lucky that Ron went to the Ministry right after the train departed and didn't stick around anymore as she met up with Harry and Ginny, because, just then, Malfoy and his wife – Anastasia? Alicia? – suddenly came by and seemed to want to talk to her out of nowhere.

Hermione cringed and closed her eyes tightly, but even as she did so, she could still see – no, _feel_ – Malfoy's gaze as he appraised her, his eyes moving up and down her body painfully slowly. The morning's conversation sounded once again in her mind, almost reverberating around the room, and she had no choice but to recall it whether she wanted to or not.

"_You look… different," said Draco to her as he and his wife approached, his voice hinting, bordering even on admiration. The malicious smirk she'd become so familiar with returned once again onto his face. "Weasel _feeding_ you right?" he mocked._

_She'd swallowed tensely. Oh, why did he have to look so intently at her? "Yes," she said as firmly as she could, although her instincts screamed at her to make a run for it. "He has been. Thank you for noticing, Malfoy."_

_Draco had given a crooked smile, and his wife spoke after that. "Hello, my name is Astoria Malfoy. You and I probably have never officially met." She took a hand out - her fingernails, Hermione noted, were perfectly polished, not a chip here nor there. "It's a pleasure to meet you. You must be Rosie's mother."_

_Hermione almost cried then, more out of guilt. She was beautiful, for Pete's sake! And yet Malfoy had the nerve to sleep around with other women after acquiring a wife like her._

_She took her own un-manicured hand out to shake hers. She could even pinpoint just how gracelessly she moved, compared to this woman of high class. "I'm Hermione Weasley. The pleasure's all mine. And, yes, I am Rose's mother."_

"_It seems our son has taken quite a liking to your daughter," noted Astoria, and she cocked her head to one side, her eyes filled with slight incredulity._

"_She looks just like how you did back at school," teased Draco, and Hermione tried her best to ignore him as he laughed._

"_Yes, I noticed," said Hermione, paying no attention to Draco's remark. "The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Rose was almost skipping as we made our way here; she couldn't wait to see Scorpius."_

_Astoria laughed. "Yes, Scorpius is definitely quite the catch, isn't he?"_

Another individual contaminated with the overly-contagious Malfoyarrogance_, Hermione remarked cruelly to herself. Of course, she didn't expect any less with Malfoy as her husband. The more time you spent with the bastard, the more his attributes wear out on you._

_But before she could reply, however, Astoria glanced at her wristwatch and her lipsticked lips formed a small O. "Look at the time!" she exclaimed delicately. "I have a doctor's appointment in five minutes, and I have to be there on time or else reschedule for another one, but he won't be available for another month," she explained to Hermione. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Weasley."_

"_Please, call me Hermione." _But I'd much rather you didn't.

"_Then I'll see you soon, Hermione," she bid, kissed her husband goodbye, and Apparated on the spot, which left Hermione with no other company than Draco Malfoy._

_Hermione didn't look at the blond man, but she could feel his gaze travel up and down her body and finally linger upon her face. And, in her peripheral vision, saw him cock his head to one side, his forehead wrinkling._

"_You look familiar," he noted slowly, and Hermione could feel her entire body turn to stone._

"_Of course I do," she said matter-of-factly, brushing his gaze away with an indifferent wave of her hand. "We went to school together, remember? Mudblood Granger? That was me?"_

_Draco didn't seem to buy that, however. He was still gazing intently at Hermione as he insisted again, "No. You look _really_ familiar."_

"_Well, I probably look like one of your relatives or something. And, speaking of relatives, I think I have to go," said Hermione with a nervous laugh, although there _was_ no relative she was intending to meet. She knew that if she'd stayed longer, Malfoy would probably then be able to put two and two together and finally figure out where exactly he'd seen her before, and she couldn't have that. "Nice meeting you, er, your wife."_

And she then quickly Apparated to where she stood pacing now, not even bothering to meet up with Harry and Ginny, which was her original plan, nor taking any more notice of how Draco still worked around his brain to figure out her odd behavior.

But, as she paced her room back and forth right then, she firmly accepted that things weren't as simple as they had been before. She would not be letting her fear nor her cowardice overcome her any further. She wouldn't run from her past, her mistake which she so persistently buried with the skeletons in her closet, any longer. She would finally own up to _that_ mistake.

Things might've been different – or, much rather, _stayed the same_ – if only Rose never showed any feelings towards Scorpius. But she did, and despite the trouble Hermione knew Rose was getting her into, she still couldn't bear to blame her daughter for anything.

And so, with her heart heavy, she sat down onto the cushioned stool at her husband's work area, produced a quill and a small roll of parchment, and began writing what seemed to be, for her, her death wish.

* * *

The bright September sun shining brightly through the open windows at Draco's workstation at the Ministry made his mood considerably lighter, despite the heavy workload that greeted him as soon as he'd stepped into his office.

_Nice weather today_, he thought to himself as he admired the view from his windows. The sky was a clear blue, resembling forget-me-nots, and there wasn't a single cloud visible. He wondered what his son was doing in school at that moment, blanketed under the same sky.

It had been three days since his son's departure for school, and, though he never would admit it to anyone, he missed Scorpius terribly. _He's probably with his Rosie_, he thought somewhat grudgingly._ Any other girl I can accept fully, but a _Weasley_? Argh! You've got to be kidding me._

But he found himself brushing that thought aside as he sat onto his high-backed chair and began to skim the tall stack of documents resting upon his wooden desk. However, he realized he needed a quill to sign the documents with, and so he retrieved one from his desk drawer. As he groped inside, something foreign met the tips of his fingers.

The same pair of underwear he'd kept hidden for fifteen long years greeted him as he took it out and held it, and a grin spread widely across his face as he thought again of how much he'd changed since that night. The saying "save the best for last" seemed appropriate for it because that had been the last night of his adulterous ways, and he was glad that she (whoever _she_ had been) had been the one to perform his "last act" with him.

The truth was, he didn't change for himself, or even for his wife, at all; he'd changed for his Scorpius. He didn't want his son to be ashamed of him, nor did he want him to grow up having a messed-up family. However, there were times when his masculine _needs_ consumed him infinitely, but he learned how to curb them although it wasn't easy. He contented himself with his wife's mediocrity in bed, or even avoided spare time altogether in order not to feel the need of release.

It had been a hard fifteen years, but it was worth everything. He had gotten his son's respect above all else, something his _own_ father never gained from him. Yes, Draco did respect the late Lucius Malfoy, but more out of fear. _But it's bad to speak ill of the dead_, Draco reprimanded himself, _so quit it_. And so he buried the underwear back onto his desk drawer and shut it, focusing back to the job at hand.

_Isn't there anything else?!_ Draco thought in frustration later on as the lunch hour loomed, skimming probably the tenth memorandum circular that sat upon his desk. _Always laws, laws, LAWS that don't even concern me at all. This job stinks. _The black-and-white text seemed to swim in front of his very eyes and, tired of having read for the past three hours, stretched his legs and walked towards wide windows once again.

A minuscule dot in the distance caught his attention, and as he looked closely upon it, noticed it to be getting somewhat bigger… and nearer.

Closer proximity suggested that the figure looming was an owl - an exceptionally tiny one at that. Draco looked that the tiny creature with interest – after all, it wasn't every day when you saw an owl that flew somewhat erratically. The owl had a sort of lopsided flight – it flew slightly to the left most of the time – until, uninvited, it fluttered right past his face and into his office.

Draco twisted his head sharply to look at the tiny owl – _quivering with excitement, probably_ – now landing on the tall stack of documents he'd just ignored. The owl's beak was clamped tightly around a small roll of parchment and its wide yellow eyes appraised him.

He scoffed at the sight of such a hideous owl; he was certain he'd never seen this unkempt an owl in his whole lifetime. With curiosity fueling his mind, he crossed over to where the animal perched and snatched the mail from its beak roughly.

The owl let out a sharp squeal once rid of the mail and Draco covered his ears with his hands, the noise completely taking him aback.

"Shush!" he snapped to it, unrolled the parchment, and quickly read the short mail:

_Draco Malfoy,  
I need to discuss something with you. Send us your answer back with Pig immediately about when and where you might prefer for us to meet.  
From, Hermione Weasley  
P.S. It's about our children.  
P.P.S. It'd be better if you didn't bring (Alicia) your wife. I'm not bringing Ron, either._

The entire mail was written neatly, except for that one small mistake – almost too neatly for his liking.

_Pig? Who in the world was Pig?!_ And then it dawned on him that "Pig" might be the excited owl that was swooping around his office just then (he made a mental note that the Mudblood _sure_ had a sense of humor), making sharp noises here and there. With his tongue between his teeth he quickly scribbled something on the back of the same piece of parchment, anxious for the owl to leave before making any damage towards any of the things in his workstation:

_Yes, I am available this afternoon. 3pm at the Leaky Cauldron would be appropriate.  
Draco_

And, after giving it the mail, he sent the owl off immediately, quickly shutting his windows just in case the owl decided to come back and wreak more havoc in his office.

With the silence that engulfed him afterwards he found it a lot easier to concentrate on what he had just recently received.

What did the Mudblood want to meet him up for? Something about their children? But if that had been the case, then she might've said something to him about it three days ago; they'd already seen each other on the train station, didn't they? And how come she didn't want _Alicia _(he laughed inwardly again; he didn't think the "top witch" was that bad with names) to accompany him? If it involved Scorpius, didn't she think that his mother would want to know about it? And what was the deal with not bringing the weasel? He wanted to see him and inquire about his _paycheck_.

But overthinking it made his head pound, and so he left his office as the indication of the lunch hour chimed around the entire building, donning on his black robes as he went. He quickly sent a paper airplane to his secretary about his taking the afternoon off.

He didn't know the exact reason why, but meeting the Mudblood suddenly made him very anxious. He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to concentrate on whatever she wanted to discuss with him today, but rather focus on what she looked like _without_ those clothes she wore.

Because, truthfully, the Mudblood had grown up to be quite attractive as the years passed.


	6. Lucky

CHAPTER 6: Lucky

The Leaky Cauldron was one of the most famous pubs in the entire wizarding world. Witches and wizards from all over the country sometimes went out of their way to stop at the place, sometimes to visit the widely-popular and friendly bartender, Tom, or to try their servings of delicious morsels and exotic drinks, seeing as how wizards could pop in and out of places as they pleased in no time at all (via Apparition). Draco Malfoy was no exception to this regularity – he was an aficionado of the cozy place, and he often found reason to stop by. And right then, he had scheduled an appointment to meet in the same pub with an old school… _friend_.

He sat in one of the corner booths, alone, as he waited for the Mudblood to arrive, ignoring the purple-haired waitress who seemed to be somewhat flirting with him. Normally, he would've responded to her advances – after all, it wasn't everywhere that you had unwarranted sex served generously – but he found the waitress fairly young. He needed a _woman_, for Pete's sake, not a little girl. And besides, the waitress wasn't exactly what you'd call attractive.

_That _woman, however, was sinfully attractive.

As soon as the tinkle of the bell sounded, a very harassed-looking Hermione Granger – now Weasley – came right through the glass front door, her hand clutching at a set of keys and her hair disheveled. Draco didn't know why, but the image of her looking so unkempt brought an amused smirk across his face. He watched her as she scanned the customers of the bar and noticeably stiffened as soon as she located him. She took a huge breath before coming closer, and that made Draco's smile wider.

_Was the whole idea of talking to me making her _that_ nervous?_ he thought to himself, entertained.

His gaze traveled down her body as she made her way, and he noted that she wore nothing exceptional – just a pair of dark-colored jeans and a red turtleneck long-sleeved sweater – but she made the goddamn clothes look so sexy. She would even be attractive in a pillowcase with holes for the arms and legs, for Pete's sake! But he was even _surer_ that she would be even more attractive in nothing at all.

Astoria just never looked that way.

Ugh, what was he even _thinking_? Was he actually considering making love to the _Mudblood_? Was he actually ignoring the fact that she would taint him with her impurity once that happened? It must have had something to do with the fact that he hadn't been able to experience proper release for the past fifteen years that he was actually considering fucking every woman on the street, even _Mudbloods_.

Hermione slid on the seat right across from him and dabbed at her forehead with a dainty white handkerchief. As soon as she caught her breath she told him, "I'm sorry for being late; I got stuck in traffic."

Draco raised an eyebrow. Since when did magic people get stuck in _traffic_? "What do you mean, traffic?"

Hermione, whose face was already flushed in the first place, flushed even harder. "Never mind."

The waitress suddenly arrived and stood right next to them. Her gaze lingered upon Hermione as she appraised her and scoffed, returning her sultry gaze towards Draco. "Are you ready for your order now?" she asked, hinting subtly at words.

But before Draco could reply, however, Hermione let out an agitated yell. "Don't drink anything!"

Draco raised his eyebrows at the brunette. "Why not?"

"Just… _don't_."

Casey (it said on her nametag) cocked an eye at the brunette. "What about your… wife?" she sniffed.

Draco, forgetting about Hermione's strange outburst, let out a short and derisive laugh but didn't bother to correct the waitress. This girl actually thought that the Mudblood was his _wife_! How fairly obtuse!

Hermione, however, reddened at that blatant outburst. "I'm not his wife," she mumbled, and added, "I'll have coke."

Casey, whose mood noticeably lightened, turned on her heels and walked away, attending to her order. Draco then turned to Hermione, preparing to ask why she wouldn't allow him to drink anything, when he noticed her biting down hard on her full lower lip as she worked to avoid his eyes. It was mesmerizing just watching her fidget under his intense scrutiny. He suddenly had a wild urge to bite that lower lip _himself_. He had a strong feeling that it would be very soft, and velvety… and wondered what it would be like to kiss the Mudblood's full lips altogether.

Hermione dramatically sighed and turned to him, her chocolate-brown eyes piercing his gray ones.

Something surged from his memory. He didn't know why those eyes looked so… _familiar_.

No, this gaze had nothing to do with their days at Hogwarts at all, he was sure of that. Her eyes weren't familiar the way she'd glared at him countless times while they had been children – this was entirely something else. His memory suddenly uncovered something he'd never remembered before: the same pair of eyes, looking at him in wonder and elation, and possibly even sensuality.

But that couldn't be. Granger never looked at him that way. He never knew her enough for her to have done that.

Brushing all those thoughts aside, he focused back on what the Mudblood was about to say.

"We need to talk."

Draco leaned his elbow atop the table and rested his chin upon it. "Yes, you said that on the letter. What about our children?"

Hermione's shoulders heaved with her heavy sigh. Before she could open her mouth to speak, however, Casey had come back laden with a tray and served Hermione her drink. "Here you are," she announced, and turned to Draco once more. "Anything I can get _you_ this time?"

Draco smiled – it was more of a grimace – and said to the persistent girl, "No, that will be all."

The girl gave one last fleeting look at Draco and another disdainful gaze upon Hermione. As soon as she was out of earshot, Draco repeated his question.

Hermione sighed again, out of uneasiness. "Scorpius and Rosie – they can't be together," she blurted out.

Draco's forehead wrinkled. He wasn't sure if he heard her right. What did she mean, they couldn't be together? They were children; they deserved whatever happiness their hearts desired. His anger surged and he glared at her. "Granger," he said with as much menace as he could, "if this is anything about our childhood rivalry, forget it. I love my son dearly, and I won't let anything get in the way of his happiness. If he's happy with the weasel's daughter then so be it. It doesn't matter to me."

Hermione stiffened, her eyes widening at Draco's statement. She didn't think he was capable of loving anyone besides himself, but seeing him now, furious with her for trying to ruin whatever made his son happy, proved her prejudices wrong. He'd matured somehow; he wasn't self-absorbed anymore. He did indeed love his son, loved him dearly. It was obvious in the way he spoke about him.

"If you're worried about Scorpius; I know my son more than anyone else does. He'll take care of your Rosie. And if you're worried about marriage, don't worry about it either. We can fend for your daught –"

"This isn't about the money!" Hermione yelled exasperatedly, but kept the outburst down to a minimum so as not to let the other tables hear. She was livid at Draco – was everything to him all about wealth? And she actually thought he'd already changed!

"Then what is this about? You can't stand having a Malfoy in your family tree? Is that it?" he asked sarcastically.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to refrain herself from screaming out loud. "This isn't about the Malfoys! This isn't even about Scorpius at all!" she seethed. "It's about Rosie."

Draco felt his head fill with a thousand question marks. "Then what are you talking to _me_ about her for?!" he asked in disbelief. She thought the Mudblood mentioned _their_ children in her mail – if this discussion was all about Rosie, then what did he need to be here for? "If you want to discuss about your daughter, why talk about her with me and not with her father?" he demanded.

Hermione looked as though she might cry, and it made Draco scared. He could stand fighting wizards face to face, but he could not stand seeing any woman cry in front of him, or worse, cry _because_ of him. She restrained herself from doing so, however, as she blinked back tears and swallowed hard. "Because…" she spluttered out, "Ron might _not_ be Rosie's father."

Silence followed that revelation. Draco raised his eyebrows in amazement and incredulity, and instead of being angry as he had been before, his face split into a wide and mocking smile, something Hermione had been dreading ever since she wrote draft after draft of the mail she would send him for the past three days. He was never going to let her hear the end of it, she was sure of that.

Draco guffawed, completely ignoring the distressed look upon Hermione's face. "Oh, this is _good_!" he said jubilantly, the laughter not having completely been gone. "Are you seriously declaring you had an affair with someone else while you'd been married to the weasel? Feeling guilty and confessing to me about it?" he mocked cruelly. "Who was it? Potter? Longbottom?" He laughed again.

"It wasn't an affair," said Hermione indignantly although hopelessly, her eyes downcast as she turned her drink round and round in her palms. "It was… a one-night thing."

Draco literally clapped his hands then, exultant. "Even better! I never thought you had that side to you, Granger," he appraised, leering at her. He didn't think the Mudblood had enough _fun_ in her system to try those kinds of things, and it turned out he had been wrong! Suddenly, he wanted to book a room upstairs and shag her then (she was, after all, one of the most attractive women he'd seen in a while), and maybe get her pregnant. She'll have a complete set of three children then, all with different fathers! How hilarious! So the top witch was also the top _slut_.

"Stop smirking," she chastised angrily, embarrassed. This only made Draco's grin wider.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you've received way more than _smirks_ from other men," he ridiculed her. "So tell me –" he leaned forth on the table to look at her closely "– who was the _lucky_ man to have tasted the wanton Mudblood? Anyone I know?"

Hermione didn't answer immediately, but after a while she sighed, defeated.

"Haven't you figured it out yet, Malfoy?" she told him in a small voice, her eyes boring feebly against his. "_You _are."


	7. Daughter

[A/N: This is CRAZY! 50+ alerts for the 6 chapters? Thank you guys soooo much! :)]

* * *

CHAPTER 7: Daughter

After regaining his momentarily-lost composure (and found just the right amount of bravado to do so), Draco snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea. What was the Mudblood suggesting? That they'd somehow _slept_ together? Admittedly, he'd slept around with a handful of women before – some whose names he couldn't even remember anymore – but if he'd slept with the Mudblood, surely he was to remember that. After all, he wouldn't regard that as unforgettable – sleeping with the very same girl who'd slapped him across the face while they had been in school together.

"Are you seriously whacked out, Granger?" he asked Hermione in amazement. He didn't know whether to laugh it off or be angry with her. "You honestly think I'm going to believe that?"

Hermione licked her lips nervously, her eyes desperate. "You didn't recognize me," she tried to explain. "You were drunk – _we_ were drunk."

And the Mudblood had the nerve to back her accusation? This was unheard of! "Just how much _money_ do you need, Granger?" he asked her frankly, his voice low and dangerous. "This is what it's all about, isn't it? You need money for your Rosie and your sorry excuse for a husband can't afford two children. I can't believe you would invent a cock-and-bull story just to get what you want when you could just come right out and say so."

Hermione's mouth hung open at his blunt words. "I don't need your money!" she spat at him, offended, tears springing into her eyes once again. Here she was, confessing about a mistake that's nearly been eating her alive for the past fifteen years that she woke up from sleep sometimes even dreaming about the goddamn night! Was that all she was to him? A pathetic money-grubber who would invent tall tales for the sake of getting cash? And how dare he insult her husband!

"Then what do you need of me?" demanded Draco, matching her anger with his.

Hermione couldn't help herself then. A tear slid out from the corner of her eye, more because of her anger – she _told_ herself she wouldn't cry in front of Malfoy – and said to him in a trembling voice, "I _need_ you to remember that night. Christmas Eve, at the Three Broomsticks fifteen years ago." She paused for a short moment, dreadful. "That was _me_."

Hermione saw the realization in his gray eyes then – how the memories flowed into Draco's mind as she relived that night. Just like earlier in his office that day, Draco could remember, although everything seemed indistinct and hazy, that very night she was telling him about. He had indeed been drunk, and there had been a brunette involved. And, as he looked at Hermione now, he could see faint resemblances. The facial features might have been somewhat vague, but her eyes were the most striking – the most familiar.

But Draco shook his head stubbornly. No, she couldn't be the same girl. She couldn't be the very person he'd been fantasizing about for the past fifteen years, the one he'd secretly pertained to as his personal sex goddess. "Preposterous," he uttered. "I need proof before believing you."

"I was expecting you'd say that," muttered Hermione under her breath, and, seeing as how she'd planned this rendezvous for three days now she'd already readied her proof. "Come here," she told him, indicating for him to come closer and sit right next to her.

Draco, whose heart thudded against his chest for some reason, looked at her distrustfully. "You'd better not get any ideas," he warned before obeying what she'd instructed.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, something she rarely ever did anymore, bearing in mind the fact that she considered herself as a woman now. She pulled her sweater up to expose the tiniest bit of skin – Draco's blood pulsed at the expanse of smooth, flawless skin, and silently cursed himself for his licentious needs – and pulled the waistband of her jeans down. There, directly at her hip, was a crown-shaped birthmark.

"_What is this?" asked Draco, his thumb going over the skin of her hip and the weirdly-shaped mark. "A hickey your husband gave you?"_

"_No, a birthmark," replied the girl breathily, her entire frame quivering from his tender touch. "Ignore it if it disgusts you; my husband hates it."_

_Draco grinned at her. "I think it's sexy," he appeased her, and as if to prove his point, he ran his tongue over the mark, the lady's ecstatic moans sounding in his ears…_

That was _enough_ proof.

In disbelief, Draco let out a loud expletive. "_Shit_."

Hermione shook her head disapprovingly at him – was that the sort of language he'd been teaching his son? – but decided to ignore it. After all, his son wasn't any of her business at all. "Now do you believe me?"

Draco's mouth gaped. How could he _not_ believe her? He'd seen that birthmark before, and the only way he could have was if they'd done exactly what she said they'd done. The mystery girl, the girl whom he'd imagined many times in Astoria's place as she'd made love to him, was none other than the _Mudblood_, Hermione Granger. And she was suggesting that – that –

"It was a mistake, I know, but I'm certain I conceived Rosie about that time, and –"

"You didn't fuck the weasel during that time at all?" interrupted Draco, his voice rising with hysteria. His arrogance and mockery were all but gone now, and Hermione wasn't sure if she preferred the proud Draco, or this frenzied one.

"I don't remember," confessed Hermione in frustration, her elbow resting against the tabletop and her palm against her forehead. "And stop cursing!"

"Merlin's _fucking_ beard," uttered Draco, and Hermione's glare greeted him, which he plainly ignored. "I have a daughter who is fifteen years old –"

"Fourteen," Hermione corrected him automatically.

"Whatever," he told her, annoyed. "And she is dating my _son_, which is simply _disgusting_."

"That's why I wanted to tell you – if Rosie never showed any preference for Scorpius I might've disregarded everything that happened that night, and just buried it in the past –"

"And you're _sure_ she's my daughter?" pressed Draco, his eyes narrowing with skepticism.

"She doesn't look a thing like Ron," conceded Hermione meekly.

"That's because she's an exact replica of you," remarked Draco under his breath. "How 'bout Potter, huh? You sure he's not the father?" he mocked cruelly. After all, if the Mudblood'd confessed about sleeping with him, what made it impossible for her not to have slept with _other_ men?

Hermione looked about ready to slap his handsome face. "For your information, Malfoy," she seethed, going red in the face, "I have _never_, in my entire married life, slept with anyone else besides my husband. With one exception," she added, almost reluctantly.

"And _I_ had to be the exception," he retorted with sarcasm. "No wonder you didn't want me bringing Astoria along."

Hermione gnawed on her lower lip again, and it made Draco laugh to himself bitterly as he remembered wanting to kiss the Mudblood just earlier. Turns out he'd already experienced that and she was a goddamn good kisser, if he remembered correctly.

"We're not sure about this, so don't flip out just yet," Hermione told him softly as she sighed. "There's a test Muggles do to verify it, whether she's your daughter or not."

Draco's focus snapped towards her words, momentarily forgetting about the daughter he never knew he had. "What test?" he asked her slowly, and wondered what he had to do. Did he have to answer questions? Essays? _What_?

"It's called a DNA test," replied Hermione.

"And what does DNA mean?" _Dragons, nymphs, and a…?_

"Deoxy… blah, blah, blah, acid; I don't know, I can't remember," said Hermione, shaking her head wildly. "It doesn't matter. What we need is a sample of your DNA, like your hair, or the inside of your cheek – things like that. And then the doctors compare it with Rosie's and see if they're similar or match."

"My hair?" asked Draco incredulously, running his fingers through it. He didn't want to go bald!

"One strand of hair is fine." She was annoyed that he'd somehow retained his vanity. But, truthfully, he did have amazing hair. She remembered how it soft it was as she ran her fingers through it _that_ night – and silently cussed herself for doing so.

"So let's take the test already," urged Draco tensely. "What else do we need?"

"We have to disburse for the test, of course – I'm sure I have enough cash saved –"

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Draco. "I'll pay for the bloody test – I'm sure your destitute husband would want you to save every penny he earns." He smirked.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You don't have Muggle money," she pointed out, irritated.

"Then we'll have my money converted at Gringotts. Jeez, Granger, I always thought you were smart."

Sighing, Hermione eventually conceded to his offer. He wasn't going to let her pay for the DNA test, whether she showed him that she had the money or not. And so, after paying for her unfinished drink, they made their way out the Leaky Cauldron, tapped at the brick wall at the back door of the pub, and entered the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley.

It made Hermione uncomfortable, having Draco Malfoy so walk so closely behind her in the midst of walking witches and wizards. _But_, she thought to herself sarcastically, _you've had an even _closer_ encounter with him fifteen years ago, haven't you, so why should this bother you? After all, you're doing nothing but walk right next to him. Maybe you should've thought about not feeling comfortable fifteen years ago, so you could've prevented everything from happening. Ron might've been Rose's father, and you wouldn't be here in the first place. No one to blame but yourself, _Mudblood_._

She couldn't believe her own mind was turning against her.

On the other hand, Draco, who was gazing at the back of Hermione's head, walked in silence behind her, his own thoughts racing. He couldn't believe the fact that he had a daughter he never knew existed – the Mudblood's daughter at that – but what intrigued him most was the Mudblood herself. She was the very girl who haunted his dreams, who filled his mind unconsciously, who made him feel most like a man. Once he met her, he once vowed to himself, he would crush her against a wall and engulf her in his kisses. But right now, though, he just wasn't feeling that way.

Or maybe because the Mudblood had never actually been in his list of candidates.

Once they left Gringotts, Hermione was left with a large wad of Muggle money thicker than the actual palm of her hand. Even while she'd been with her parents – they had been quite well-off – she never held this much cash in their entire life. It made her blush profusely, and she didn't know the exact reason why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she hadn't taken seriously the fact that the Malfoys were _unreasonably_ wealthy. She'd always been aware that they were, but now she had first-hand experience to prove it.

"So we have the money," said Draco as they made their way down the white marble stone steps of the bank. "What do we do now?"

Hermione tucked the money away in her handbag – it made her feel uneasy just holding it – and asked him a question in return. "Are you fond of Muggle transpo?"

"Why?" asked Draco in suspicion.

"We're going for a ride."

* * *

[A/N: Unfortunately, you guys have to go through this grueling rant of an AN.

I am at a crossroads right now. I THOUGHT I had the entire plot planned out (right down to the ending, even) but I have gotten the vibe that you guys expect this fic to be a mature, level-headed one. If I push through with my initial plot, Draco and Hermione have to somewhat act immature-ish (there will be smut, and I mean _real_ smut, in the following chapters), and I don't want to disappoint you guys by doing that. So, until I have the new plot planned out, I leave you with this chapter. However, there is a chance that I will push through with my first plot, but... I am not certain yet.

And, oh yeah, for those who are also reading **A Whirlwind Romance,** I am SO sorry for the delay! I am experiencing the worst case of writer's block with it (I am already at the revenge part, but I don't know how to _warm_ up to it the right way, if you know what I mean), so, hopefully, I'll be able to update that within the week. Sorry again for the delay.

So, I guess that's it. Thank you for reading! Review please. :) -Nina]


	8. Cheek

[A/N: To _hell_ with my fickleness! I'd do this story just as how I originally planned it to (my friend actually even chastised me for being so over-analytical about things), so here you guys go! :)]

* * *

CHAPTER 8: Cheek

Hermione, unbeknownst to most people in the wizarding world, owned a sleek silver Volvo. It was something she rarely used – ever since she'd been able to Apparate it had been the only means of travel she'd taken a tolerance to, plus she hated highway traffic – but she kept the vehicle in top shape in case of emergencies, just like this one. Right now, the silver car was parked outside the Leaky Cauldron, in front of the bookshop right next to the pub unseen by Muggle eyes.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at Hermione as she took out her keys – the car gave a rapid tweet-tweet – and pulled the driver's seat wide open. "Get in the car, Malfoy," she called out to him before disappearing inside.

Draco didn't move from where he stood. He, growing up ignorant about Muggle machines, found the vehicle slightly frightening. It looked beautiful, no doubt about that (though he knew nothing about cars), with the way the sunlight reflected on its flawless silver surface, but he couldn't imagine himself sitting astride it. He crossed his arms across his chest stubbornly and glared at the car. He couldn't see anything that was happening inside at all – what was Granger _doing_ in there? – because the windows were heavily tinted.

The window in the passenger seat lowered itself automatically and Hermione's head peeked out, her own eyebrow raised at him. "What are you doing?" she said in frustration. "I said get in the car."

Draco shook his head obstinately, ignoring the Muggles passing by as they looked at him with interest and hilarity. "No way, Granger." His voice trembled.

_Are you kidding me_? thought Hermione incredulously. She made an exasperated grunt and got out of the car again, this time pulling the passenger door open for Draco and pushing him roughly inside, ignoring his protests. Once she got into the driver's seat she slammed the door shut and switched the ignition on. The car purred to life, but she didn't drive just yet.

"This isn't so bad," admitted Draco, although his fingers dug deeply into the black leather seats. The feeling of having that small a space enclosed around him made him feel quite claustrophobic.

Hermione let out an amused hoot. "You taunt anyone _and_ everyone you know, but you're scared of _cars_," she ridiculed harshly.

"I was never born a Mudblood, Granger," he retorted darkly, "unlike _some_ people here."

"Touché." Hermione revved the engine and they backed out of the parking space.

The car moved smoothly under Hermione's hands at the steering wheel as they drove. The houses and buildings flashed past their windows, and she watched Draco in her peripheral vision as his head swiveled around to look at everything they passed.

They weren't really headed anywhere, Hermione knew that, but she felt she needed to drive her car desperately for the sake of distracting herself, although she might be spending the ride with Malfoy. She'd taken the time to drive to the Leaky Cauldron before meeting Malfoy too, to relieve some stress, and maybe to kill some time. It was just _too_ unbearable – her secret that Draco Malfoy might be her daughter's father.

The DNA testing kit she'd recently ordered from the Internet lay on the backseat, the envelope for Malfoy's cheek cells begging to be opened. She'd already taken some samples of Rosie's before they'd arrived at the Hogwarts Express three days ago, despite Rosie's confusion (she was careful not to let Ron nor Hugo see), and it lay on the backseat as well, right next to Draco's. Hermione's hands ached as they gripped the steering wheel too tightly, frantically trying not to cry once more.

Her perfect life – living with Ron, her childhood sweetheart; seeing beautiful, innocent Rose and bold, tenacious Hugo both tucked in their beds at night – all of that was immediately erased by the man now occupying the passenger seat of her car.

She'd already mentally prepared herself for this, hadn't she, so why was she still breaking down? Why right now? Was it because she was faced with reality then? Was Truth slapping her hard on the face?

Draco's panicked voice broke her internal struggle. "G-Granger?" he called out in a shaky voice. "Aren't we going too fast?"

The speedometer stated that she was indeed going too fast, even in her hazy vision. Hoping that no police had caught sight of her driving, she stopped abruptly at the curb of a Muggle street, the wheels giving an abrasive screech. Fortunately, they were undetected.

As soon as they'd stopped and Draco had been able to catch his breath, his bad temper returned. "What are you playing at?!" he demanded. "I almost _died_!"

Hermione almost laughed – it was unusual for her to see Malfoy so scared. "Sorry," she mumbled, discreetly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Draco ignored the fact that she was crying, for fear that it would eat him again. "Where are we going anyway?"

"Nowhere," she whispered admittedly. "I just… needed to drive."

"Well, you could've driven without me!"

"Sorry," she said again, "but I needed you."

Draco narrowed his eyes, not because of anger, but because he scrutinized Hermione's behavior. She didn't think the Mudblood had ever looked as defeated as she did now, not even when he'd called her Mudblood to his face, nor when she had been tortured by his late aunt Bellatrix. He remembered clearly how she'd looked then, but her screams will forever haunt him; the screams of someone so helpless by no means could ever leave his memory.

Hermione twisted around in her seat and reached for something in the back. Draco saw that it was an ordinary envelope, with the words CONFIDENTIAL printed clearly on the outside.

She produced a couple of weird-looking things from the envelope then: two slightly-larger cotton swabs. She handed both to Draco.

Draco looked at the items, puzzled. "What are these for?"

Hermione sniffed. "The DNA test," she whispered.

"And what exactly do I do with these?"

But instead of asking his question, Hermione asked a completely unrelated one. "When did you eat last?"

_This is getting weirder and weirder_, thought Draco to himself, but he answered her anyway. "I haven't eaten since breakfast," he admitted.

Hermione nodded dejectedly and turned her head to stare out the windshield once again.

"Granger!" he yelled, completely annoyed and irritated now. "_What do I do with these_?"

"Scrape the insides of your cheeks."

He looked blankly at her. "What?" _Muggles are barbarians._

With an irritated sigh, Hermione faced Draco again and grabbed one of the cotton swabs from him, shoving it inside his already-agape mouth. She slowly and deliberately rolled the cotton tip round and round the inside of his left cheek, and Draco couldn't help himself from staring at her while she did it.

It wasn't supposed to be anything close to sexual, he was definitely aware of that, but the way she manipulated his mouth made the fiery pools in the pit of his stomach burn warmer. Hermione seemed to be fixated with the movement too, because she couldn't keep her eyes off of his mouth, and Draco could swear there was something else behind those brown eyes of hers, besides despondency and anguish. Lust, maybe, and sensuality, and passion… or maybe he was just getting a bit too carried away, or reading too much into things.

And then brown eyes locked into gray ones.

But before he could confirm what he thought he'd identified further, she pulled her hand back and raised the cell-induced cotton swab in midair. "You know the drill – you do the other one. The other cheek for one minute."

He raised the other swab and put it into his mouth, but it didn't have the same effect to him as when she had done it. When he'd finished, he gave it to her as well.

"What do we do now?"

"We air-dry it for fifteen minutes," was her answer.

Those fifteen minutes, to Draco, seemed like hours. Hermione didn't look up from what she was doing as she turned the cotton swabs round and round her fingertips, careful not to touch the cotton ends. Draco was getting agitated, if not a bit skeptical. What sort of barbaric Muggle test was this? And was it even _reliable_? Was it possible that Rose _Weasley_ – he cringed at the surname – was actually a member of the Malfoy family tree? What would that do to him, or worse, Scorpius?

His son would be heartbroken. And betrayed.

Something he himself felt when his own father had imposed to branding him the Dark Mark. He shivered at the memory of how close he'd been to dying then, after being unable to fulfill the task set upon him.

To have blood smeared all over his hands…

He shook his head. The war was over. There was no use in fretting about past mistakes, past horrors. The matter at hand was Rose Weasley, and whether or not she was his daughter.

But what if she was? Was he willing to take her in? And was he willing to accept Granger as the mother of his supposed-daughter?

Mulling over Granger, he couldn't help but reminisce the night when they'd made their daughter… and something foreign, yet so very welcome, formed between his hips.

_Whoa_. He hadn't felt _that_ in a long time.

Hermione suddenly announced that the fifteen minutes were up, and she put Draco's swabs into the same envelope where she'd gotten them and labeled it carefully. He read his own name, upside down, as Hermione wrote it down deliberately.

"We mail these back to the testing company," explained Hermione, "and they'll compare your DNA to Rosie's."

"How long does it take for the results to come?" Draco asked her warily.

Hermione shrugged. "A week, minimum. They usually perform more than one test to maximize precision."

Draco blinked stupidly. It wasn't his habit at all, but he did it anyway. _A week_? he thought to himself in horror. _With Hermione Granger_? When a few minutes in her presence made him grow large and heavy between his legs? When she made him forget about the deal he'd made with himself for Scorpius? Merlin knew just how much he wished he could banish all these urges, but he just couldn't do it.

All fifteen years came crashing down onto this moment. He was alone (with the fact that the windows were heavily tainted), with Hermione Granger – the very girl he'd secretly been masturbating to, despite already having Astoria in his life.

He couldn't deny himself anymore. But, what was worse, he couldn't deny _her_.

He felt sick, but he did it anyway.

He closed that small distance between them and planted a hot and heavy kiss against the side of her neck.

Hermione stiffened under him and surged an intake of breath. "What are you doing?" she asked in surprise and horror, and backed against the window.

"I just…" _What? Felt like shagging you right now?_ "I…" He found himself unable to continue.

Hermione's round eyes became even rounder and wider at the suddenness of his action, and she looked at him with bewilderment as he leaned back again against the passenger seat. Sure, shock did consume her, but the feeling of his warm and soft lips against her neck was simply divine, and a fiery pool formed in _her_ own stomach. She couldn't ever recall the time when Ron had made her feel anything of the sort, and her traitorous body wanted her to feed its cravings. But she knew her priorities. And she knew her limits.

She would not let Draco Malfoy get to her anymore, like how he did so fifteen years ago.

She opened her mouth, prepared to say something, maybe tell him to shove off, but shut it again because just then, Draco decided to speak.

"I have a proposal to make," said Draco firmly to her, but kept his eyes down.

Hermione eyed him warily. "What?" she inquired, expecting some unachievable task.

Draco didn't answer immediately. "You said we would have to wait for a week."

"I did," said Hermione slowly, apprehensively.

"Seven days…" Draco mused. "And our spouses won't know about these… rendezvous."

"Unless you want to tell your wife…?" But Hermione wished he wouldn't. Not until everything had been confirmed.

"Of course not." He sounded like one who had been offended. And then he fell silent again.

Hermione grew agitated_. Just what exactly was Draco getting at_? she wanted to know. Just what exactly was his proposal to make? Surely it involved their children, for she knew there was no other reason for him to have any contact with her. After all, he considered her lower than dirt, the lowest creature to ever walk the wizarding world.

"A week, Granger," Draco repeated as he rubbed the back of his neck. His leg, Hermione noticed, seemed to quiver.

"What _about_ the week?" demanded Hermione, extremely curious about his odd behavior.

Draco licked his lips nervously. "What do you say to some… exercise?" He noticed his own voice crack. Was he seriously going to ask her this? He'd regret it after the week, he was sure of that.

"Exercise?" Hermione echoed, dumbfounded.

"Ugh, Granger! Are you really going to make me say this?"

"Say _what_?! What are you talking about?"

He turned to her then, and his gray eyes were blazing.

"In layman's term, we _fuck_ each other for a week."


	9. Proposal

[A/N: As a reminder, this fic is NOT Epilogue-compliant. And, oh yeah, best to put this at the beginning: Rated M for smut.  
Special mention to the song _One More Night_ by Maroon 5, for being an endless inspiration for (almost!) the entire fic. Here are a few lines which, I think, identifies with this chapter perfectly, in an eerie way.

_Tried to tell you no  
But my body keeps on telling you yes  
Tried to tell you stop,  
But your lipstick got me so out of breath_

CHAPTER 9: Proposal

Hermione didn't react just then. Maybe because she _couldn't_. But as soon as she was able to, only five words escaped her mouth.

"You're out of your mind."

And she was pretty sure Draco was completely insane by then. Maybe the shock of the possibility of having Rosie as his daughter befuddled his mind somehow.

Draco sighed, slightly annoyed for being rejected for the first time, although he knew this was exactly how Hermione would take his proposal. "It's just a suggestion, Granger," he pressed on. "I know you don't feel it for the weasel, and I sure as hell don't feel it for Astoria. It's a win-win situation."

_He was seriously pressing the deal? How… disorienting_. "And just how do you know I don't feel it for Ron?" she demanded of him.

Draco shrugged. "You told me many things during that night, about how '_your husband never did this, never did that.'_ I remember things, Granger, although I couldn't remember _you_. You wanted me to do things to you that he never did. And I can do them again."

Hermione's mouth gaped at his words. She blushed profusely, embarrassment taking over her entire state of mind. And then her temper flared. "We're not _children_ anymore, Malfoy," she spat out angrily, "and just because I spread my legs wide open for you that _one_ night doesn't give you a _damn_ right to think that I am just a _convenient_ fuck–"

Draco smiled secretly. This was exactly what he liked about the little Mudblood – her temper. "Whoever said that you were a 'convenient fuck'?" he echoed her. "I'm just referring to that night because you made me feel something I knew I never felt before. And I'm sure you didn't either," he added.

"I _despise_ you, and you feel likewise about me," Hermione pointed out matter-of-factly. "I'm a _Mudblood_, in case you'd forgotten it."

It was hard to stay logical dealing with the matter at hand, or in this case, with his proposal. After all, this time it was _her_ who had to remind him of her blood impurity. He had rubbed it continuously into her face during the previous times.

"Ugh, do you really think that matters to me anymore?" replied Draco incredulously, obviously irritated. "After all, it doesn't make a difference because we'd already slept together, consciously or not. And I don't despise you," he added. "Not anymore."

Hermione narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Why not?"

"Do you honestly think I have reason enough to hate you _now_?" asked Draco in return. "And besides, the only reason I'd hated you back then was school-related. I don't see us being in school anymore."

Hermione paused, chewing over his words. Yes, they hated each other back then, because they had been children and ignorant. They fought over immature things, like schoolwork, and house points… and her blood, as mentioned. He'd been an egoistic, arrogant _bully_.

And try as hard as Hermione might to think of an excuse to hate him _now_, nothing valid came to her mind. _Now that I think about it, I _do_ hate Malfoy… for no reason at all._

Well, that was… disturbing. Normally, she found reason for _everything_.

But, she still shook her head. "No," she told him firmly, getting back to their initial conversation. "I admit, you are good – no, _wickedly_ good –" she added grudgingly, "– in bed, but no."

Draco couldn't help the cockiness that swelled in him, and the sides of his mouth turned up in what was definitively a Malfoy smirk. "It's only for seven days. We see each other, but our spouses won't know a thing about it. What would you have to lose?"

_My pride. My dignity_. "No," repeated Hermione firmly.

Draco took a deep breath through his nostrils, composing his thoughts. Hermione's familiar sweet scent – a mixture of lilacs and lavenders? – invaded his entire being. "Look," he told her, swallowing, "I don't know how to phrase myself – you're not a man, you don't feel the way I do – but… I want this week; a week would be better than having an eternity of abstinence. I don't only want this week – I _need_ this week," he corrected himself, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion. "You don't know what it's like, not having proper _release_; when every cell in your body aches for you to quell the _thirst_ that consumes you, but you know you can't win – you can never win…" He closed his eyes, desperate.

_Perfect_, thought Draco to himself._ Play on her sympathy._

Hermione couldn't comprehend what exactly he was telling her. "You have a _wife_ now," she said, enunciating each word slowly. "You can –"

Draco barked out a bitter laugh, interrupting her. "Astoria," he scoffed. "I'd rather shag a flobberworm; I'm sure I'd enjoy myself better."

"Then maybe you should," said Hermione sarcastically, "because I am _not_ having any illegitimate liaison behind Ron's back."

Vexed, Draco ran his hand through his hair and groaned. Stupid, stubborn witch. "It's just _sex_, Granger!" he cried out. "No emotions, no love; just pure, carnal pleasure. Just until we receive the exam results, and then we go our separate ways. We can even Obliviate each other's memories afterwards, for Pete's sake."

"Well, it doesn't always work out that way!" Hermione spat at him, frustrated herself. Why couldn't he understand? "I've seen movies and read books like that, Malfoy, and somehow, _magically_, they always fall in love with each other," she said with evident sarcasm.

Draco smirked, amused, and Hermione could only guess what that meant. He had something to hold over her head this time.

And she was right.

"Is that what you're worried about?" asked Draco slyly, leering at her. His face wore the malicious smirk once again. "Afraid you're going to fall in _love_ with me?"

"Of course not," Hermione snapped quickly. But that only made Draco's wicked grin wider.

"Then what's the problem?" asked Draco haughtily.

Hermione swallowed nervously and tried to think of an appropriate answer. She knew what he was doing – he was trapping her with her _own_ words. And now she knew there was no way out.

Draco cocked his head condescendingly. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clicked his tongue. "Doubtful of your love for the weasel?" he mocked.

This time, it was Hermione who had to breathe through her nostrils. "I love my husband," she told him resolutely.

"Then this shouldn't bother you at all," appeased Draco. "You can love the weasel all you want, but for a week – one _measly_ week, Granger – your body belongs to me."

_Your body belongs to me_ – these words caused a fiery pool of unwanted yearning to form in the pit of Hermione's stomach, and spread itself all around her circulation. Oh, Merlin. She couldn't let him get to her, not anymore – but she couldn't help the wanton desire of having someone like _Malfoy_ satisfy her once more. She still could remember that night, fantasized about it sometimes, even… She didn't think she'd ever been more sexually gratified, more fulfilled…

There was never as much passion in her and Ron's lovemaking.

She couldn't betray her husband, though. She wouldn't disrespect him in that way.

"No," she stated.

Draco could detect a hint of indecision in the rebuff, though, and mock-sighed. "I guess you just can't trust yourself around me," he said in a fake sympathetic tone. "I wouldn't either. After all, not only did I retain my handsomeness, but also my –"

"I wouldn't fall in love with an _asshole_ like you!" yelled Hermione, her anger back. _You self-conceited jerk…_

"Then prove it," incited Draco, leaning towards her. "Kiss me."

Draco was too close for comfort now, but Hermione didn't move. There was _too_ much of him, and so _close_ – and she knew if she tried to open her mouth, she would be able to _taste_ his scent…

"Kiss me, Mudblood, and don't you _dare_ fall in love with me."

With her blood pulsing heatedly in her ears, Hermione, meeting his challenge, dived that small distance and attacked Draco's lips viciously with hers. "Good girl," she heard Draco moan, and he kissed her back, matching the roughness of her kiss with his.

The heaviness that enveloped both of their ears did not block out the wet noises that they were indeed making – the soft moans and pleasured sighs. They memorized each other's lips, their tongues mated, and their teeth bit sharply against each other. Despite the roughness, though, Draco's lips remained very soft and warm. _Hmm,_ Hermione caught herself thinking, _I seriously wouldn't permit myself this? If this is wrong, then I _seriously_ don't want to be right. _She liked the feel of his stubble on her fingertips as she caressed his neck, and her fingers traveled lower, breezing through the buttons on his shirt easily, and let a hand wander across his lean chest and taut stomach.

Draco, frustrated, wanted the witch in his lap. "Fucking Muggle car," he spat out harshly, when he realized that the space was too limited to allow comfort.

"Wait," Hermione gasped out, planting a quick kiss on the curve of his collarbone. "Wand, Malfoy."

Draco fumbled inside his jeans pocket for the wand and handed it to her, not breaking the passionate kisses he was spreading along the column of her throat. Her incantation was broken with the hot and heavy sighs that escaped her lips as he let a hand grope underneath her sweater and skim the round mounds of her breasts.

Hermione felt disoriented. _What am I doing?! Am I seriously –_

"No, Malfoy!" she suddenly screamed, pushing at Draco's bare chest roughly.

"Don't ruin the moment," growled Draco in a gruff voice, forcing his lips back on hers.

_Oh no, oh no, oh no_… But Hermione could not find the strength in her to stop herself from kissing him back again. His tongue washed over hers in a silky, fluid motion, and the hardness of his muscles on the palms of her hands was too good to be true. _You're kissing Malfoy, Granger! Draco Malfoy!_

But sometimes, there was beauty in even the most sinister beings. And by sinister, she meant pigheaded, egoistic bullies with bodies to die for.

_Maybe a bit more convincing_, thought Draco on the other hand, and he pulled the wand from Hermione's grasp to recite a clearer incantation on the Volvo.

Draco had done some sort of Undetectable Extension Charm which let the meager area of the car considerably increase. The backseat of the car could've been a regular-sized bed, and he pulled Hermione atop it, eager to finish what they'd already started. Hermione felt as though she were living in a dream, and while the back of her mind was screaming frantically at her to put a stop to whatever it was that she and Draco were doing, she barely paid any attention to it because, not unlike Draco, she'd been for the longest time sexually unhappy and discontented. Her body rebelled against her own mind, and it did things her mind normally wouldn't allow it to.

She couldn't pinpoint just what exactly it was that Draco was doing to her that Ron wasn't. They both kissed her lips with the same level of passion, but something about Draco's kisses made her crave and thirst for more. Their hands both held and touched her in ways that excited and consumed her entire frame, but Draco's warm and inquisitive hands stimulated her body to no end. And something about Draco's hot and heavy pants made the fire in her body burn ever so brightly…

"You're overthinking this," breathed Draco, letting his silky tongue glide over her earlobe. Hermione's entire body quivered and she clutched frantically at his hair. "For once, just let yourself feel what you feel…" He planted kisses at the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Forget everything, and just feel me…"

"I-I shouldn't…"

But his heady scent swallowed her, and she found herself wanting to continue.

He relished the skin on her neck, and Hermione angled her head to permit him more access.

"Feel me…"

_No…_

"I feel you," she murmured otherwise, and peeled his shirt from his shoulders heedlessly.

And she definitely enjoyed how he felt. She loved the feel of his sinewy shoulders against the palms of her hands, and her curious fingers moved down his arm, across his manly chest – her fingertips rubbed circles against his hard nipples – and down his taut stomach. His body was vastly different from Ron's, and there was no doubt in her mind which one she preferred.

Draco's moans were subdued because her tongue was pressing against his.

"Damn it," he growled into her mouth, and proceeded to peel the turtleneck sweater from her body, which was drenched with her hot and heavy needs. Hermione broke their kiss to aid him as he did.

Draco looked down at Hermione in wonder – _Is _this_ really the frizzy Mudblood git whom I'd never looked twice at before_? – for the first time, not under the influence of alcohol. He drank in the expanse of her smooth and creamy skin, her perfectly-round breasts strained against the black, lacey, _seductive_ bra she wore, and down her stomach, where her beauty was impeded by the dark pair of jeans that she still wore.

Goddamn it, she was perfectly lovely! And she was his.

All his.

For a week, anyway.

He cussed privately, and hoped that the test results would take longer.

Consequently, Hermione let her own eyes trail across her lover's body. Firm, taut, toned. Draco Malfoy was beautiful and just plain perfect – perfect in every line, in every muscle, in every sense…

Except for that scar on his forearm. A significant scar. A scar, or _tattoo_, that would have made him repulsive to her once, long ago…

A scar that still made him repulsive to her _now_.

A scar that was reason enough to hate him now.

Angrily, she pushed Malfoy away from her – or rather, Malfoy and his _scar_ – and regained her usually-unwavering logic. What exactly was she doing just now? Just what exactly was she _about_ to do? Cheat on her husband?

Make love to a _Death Eater_?

Draco's gray eyes were wide as they saw the anger blazing in Hermione's brown ones. "Wha… What's wrong with you?!" he spat out, his voice laced with an emotion he refused to admit as _apprehension_.

"Get off me, Malfoy."

Draco then smirked, enjoying the challenge. He was never one who liked girls who gave themselves _too_ freely. "Not when we're already in such a _comfortable_ position, Granger." He made another attempt to force his lips back on hers, but Hermione was already beginning to sit up.

"You touch me again and I'll hex you," threatened Hermione, raising _his_ wand, and there was no doubt in Draco's mind that she meant what she said.

He'd always feared the Mudblood whenever she had a wand on hand – although never fully admitting his trepidation to it. "What stopped you cold? Realized that me looking too much of a god seemed too out of reach for you?" he managed to jibe.

"Quit flattering yourself, Malfoy. I kissed you, yes, but that was before _this_ escaped my memory, in your favor. Seeing as how I was preoccupied at the moment," snapped Hermione, her eyes grazing over his arm.

Draco let his eyes roam over the spot where Hermione looked at and when he looked back up at her again, the hostility present on her eyes was completely unreciprocated with the way his eyes regarded her with utter indifference.

"You're disgusting," spat Hermione, completely dismayed at his lack of concern.

Draco took the shirt she had managed to remove from him, and fitted it over his torso. "There. If my… _scar_ completely repulses you, I suggest I fuck you with this on."

Was becoming Voldemort's supporter one of his biggest feats? It was bloody sickening. "You're a Death Eater!" Hermione accused hotly, attempting to push him to his limits. "I know the War is over, but you do realize your participation in it? You and your _precious_ father –"

Draco's temper cracked. "That's _it_."

And Hermione did push him over the limit. Draco cupped his warm hand behind her neck and crushed his lips back on hers, swallowing her words, ignoring the protests coming from the latter. Hermione's wand dropped to the car's carpeted floor. His grip was firm, but not painful. She couldn't care less about that, though. The only thing concerning her was his lips, and the way his fingertips were creating lazy patterns along the column of her back.

Draco smothered his companion's remonstrations with his hungry, fevered kisses. He was livid, despite showing a lack of emotion. He'd taught himself that. After all, it wasn't easy living in a world where you bore your father's name, wherein everyone knew that he was just about ready to kiss the floor on which the Dark Lord had trudged upon. Indifference was how he'd dealt with the matter, conveying the message to others that he neither supported nor opposed his father's beliefs.

But did the woman actually think that he gave his _absolute_ consent when they branded him the Mark? She didn't know the whole story. She didn't know _half_ of it. Hell, despite her being an insufferable know-it-all, this was something she knew absolutely nothing about.

And pretty soon, she was kissing him back – even had her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers caressing his hair for good measure.

"Wh-why are you so intent on having sex with me?" rasped out Hermione later on as they were sprawled across the Volvo's backseat again, with Draco atop her.

"Because I need it, Granger. Not because you deserve it," he smirked. "Although I'm pretty sure you'd enjoy yourself, dammit."

He then proceeded to kiss her down, down her neck, her collarbone, and paused for a while to unclasp easily her intricate bra. Hermione regarded just how much he knew about a woman's undergarments – _Exactly how many women had he slept with before_? she thought somewhat bitterly – when all thoughts were driven out of her mind as soon as his soft lips touched her breast.

A dulcet sigh – one she knew she'd never sounded before – escaped her parted lips.

The feeling that spread from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes was nothing short of breathtaking.

Sensational.

Superb.

Surreal.

She knew it because Ron just never let her feel that way. She'd never made her feel that her upper body could hold just so much pleasure. When he'd suckled on her breasts – not unlike what Malfoy was doing now – it made her feel, well, awkward and uneasy. It wasn't a completely terrible feeling, but it wasn't pleasant either.

But – _oh_. She could feel herself come. Now. She didn't think it was possible, but she was becoming orgasmic as of the moment and there wasn't even intercourse involved. It was evident in the way her body arched against Draco's mouth, in the way she thrashed her head from side to side wildly, in the way her hands gripped tighter and tighter against Draco's hair –

She felt Draco smile against her skin, despite whatever it was that her entire body was doing. "Not yet, baby," he cooed as he pulled his head up, and planted an almost-chaste kiss on her cheek, right at the edge of her lips.

Hermione literally groaned in frustration. "But I want it _now_," she complained, growled, even, and her hands groped impatiently against the button on his trousers. She could feel the thick bulge behind it that sought for release.

"You sure?" pressed Draco, taking a cherry-tipped breast into his mouth and letting his tongue wash over it, a ripple coursing over his own body at her touch.

Hermione felt her eyeballs roll back into her head. "Yes," she choked out, and without waiting for his consent, she popped the button on Draco's trousers, and then popped the button on her own.

Her eyes widened with apprehension and anxiety as soon as she saw exactly just how _large_ Draco was. If it weren't for the fact that she was aware that they'd already made love previously, she didn't think it was possible for _that_ to be able to enter her, or any regular female. Will it fit? – How? –

"Don't look like you haven't seen that before," teased Draco, and grinned cockily at her.

Hermione swallowed nervously. "It's just that… you're _huge_. And Ron is – nowhere near that –"

Draco chuckled. "Didn't think he would be," he said under his breath, and kissed her reassuringly. "Don't worry, it will fit. Trust me. I won't hurt you."

Although Hermione nodded, Draco could still detect a hint of hesitation.

"If I hurt you, tell me to… stop," Draco appeased her, even though he wasn't a fan of the idea. Still, he didn't want to think that he was hurting her in any way. This time, she nodded with more conviction, something he expected her to do.

Draco pulled her knees up to lock her legs in place at his waist. Hermione wrapped herself around him.

And then Draco, painstakingly slowly, eased himself inside of her, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

It wasn't painful, as Draco had promised. The feeling was just… foreign. He filled her womanhood, filled it deeply, and she arched herself against him, desperate to relish more of what he offered. Her fingers curled into the silky strands of his hair, and she let out a sigh of complete bliss as he pulled back slightly and plunged into her again.

"I wouldn't hurt you, Hermione," he said in a husky whisper as he repeated, once more, his prior action.

She mentally took note of the way he'd said her first name out loud. Her name, said with the huskiness of his voice, made everything seem more otherworldly, despite it being that way already.

Unthinkingly, she breathed out, "I love how you whisper my name," as she rocked the lower half of her body to match it with his.

Draco smiled. "Hermione," he repeated, and he plunged into her. "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione…" With every call of her name he plunged, and Hermione gasped as if to answer him.

He could feel it then; she could feel it, too. The evasive release they'd been deprived of all these years, filling both their very systems. The sensation that coursed through their bodies wasn't uncommon, but it wasn't familiar, either. It was simply divine, and shared by two people whose bodies filled up each other's like corresponding puzzle pieces – that although they knew that whatever it was between them was only temporary, they could not help but to engage themselves completely in that moment and leave the rest of the world outside the seemingly-innocent Volvo.

Hermione's sharp shriek indicated her bodily bursts, and Draco pressed his lips against hers to silence her. His own gratified growls were swallowed by her mouth.

Their movements stopped, save for the way both their chests heaved up and down with their panting breaths. Draco's heavy frame fell on top of Hermione's, and Hermione's satiated body and heavy lids closed down on their own accord. Draco brushed away the sweat-slicked strands of hair that clung onto her forehead.

_Oh shit_, thought Hermione to herself dreadfully, although tiredly.

She'd just made love to Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater. Again. And it felt so _damn_ good.

_Ron is going to kill me for this. Or rather, _I_ am going to kill myself for this._

But Draco was kissing her neck again, and her exhausted body _impossibly_ reacted to those kisses.

_Maybe later._

* * *

[A/N: Apologies for the delay! I realized it's been like, what, a month(?) since my last update, and I feel awful. I've been very busy with University for the past few weeks (I'd like to kill the idiot who invented education…!). It's cruel to have left you guys hanging, I know, but I hope the extra-long chapter made up for it…!  
People are probably yelling at me right now because of how Draco and Hermione are acting like hormonal-ridden _teenagers_ (I'd made a mental calculation – if Scorpius and Rosie are 14 as of the moment, then we can conclude that Dramione are in their late 30s or 40, max – that _is_, of course, if we comply it with the Epilogue in DH, and I am NOT doing that.) Instead of it being _Nineteen Years Later_, let's make it a healthy _FOURTEEN Years Later_. That way, Dramione are in their healthy age of mid-30s while they're experiencing teenage smut. (Both my parents are in their 40s, and believe me, it's creepy to imagine them doing anything of the sort.)  
Anyway, thank YOU for having the patience to read both the chapter and this very long and drawled-out AN. :) It's two in the morning and my vision is blurring around the edges, so I think it best if I stop now. Review please! Thank you! :) –Nina]


	10. Liaisons

[A/N: Rated M for a reason.]

CHAPTER 10: Liaisons

Hermione's dreams in that short hour were composed of heavy pants, lingering kisses, and a distinct wetness between her thighs.

She kept her eyes closed despite the fact that she'd already roused. She was awake, and she hated herself for it. She only wished to remain in the loving arms of unconsciousness, just so she wouldn't have to face the aftermath of her decision.

_Stupid, stupid, _stupid, she kept repeating to herself. _I can't believe you consider yourself the top witch in your class, Granger._

She couldn't believe that once again, she'd let the same man get under her skin and please her, and, once again, she'd betrayed her husband for doing so. And if that wasn't bad enough, she'd agreed to let him please her for a week. An entire week.

She couldn't deny it to herself, though. The mere thought of having Draco Malfoy satisfy her another time made the blood pulsing through her entire body singe her veins. She'd never been happier as a woman who explored freely her sensuality. She wanted to do more, to experience more, to satiate herself more. She felt she owed herself that, after long years of being married to a man who never fully contented her in bed. And there was no other man who offered what she desired most, no other man than Draco Malfoy.

Possibly the _worst_ man on the list.

To add to the fact that he was an ex-Death Eater, he also had to be her husband's former school enemy.

The looming week would be perilous to her stable marriage (and her commonsensical mind), no doubt about that, but the sense of danger only appealed to her more. After all, no adventure would be considered an adventure if there weren't thrills or risks involved.

As conflicting as her mind was to her body, the looming week was both dreadful and alluring to her. She could only anticipate more.

But that scar on his arm…

In the heat of hazy passion, she'd ripped his shirt off him once more, and the scar was now more visible than ever. It was pointless now, really, to ask him to put it on again.

Feather-light kisses spread against the side of her neck and sent a delicious shiver all over her body, and she couldn't help the moan that escaped her lips. Draco cupped her chin delicately between his thumb and forefinger and turned her head to face him, catching her lips softly and tenderly.

It was easy to forget everything troubling your mind, especially when you had someone like Draco Malfoy distract you. And when you had Draco Malfoy between your thighs.

As what her body wanted it to do, Hermione kissed him back, wrapping both her arms around his neck and letting her tongue just glide smoothly against his. Draco rolled so that he hovered over her, and freed his lips from hers to travel them across various parts of her naked flesh.

"This is… surprising," murmured Draco with apprehension as he savored the skin on her shoulder. "I expected screaming, maybe some crying, even. But it seems as though you want this just as much as I do…"

"I do, I want this," she admitted breathily. "That still doesn't make the whole arrangement right, though." She sighed.

Cocking an eyebrow, Draco raised his head from her breast and looked at the pair of brown eyes eyeing him intently. "Do you regret anything?" he asked her, his voice even, emotionless. _Of course she did. The fickle tease…_

"No," was Hermione's simple reply, and as soon as she'd said it she realized she spoke nothing but the truth.

"Then why are you giving me that look, Granger?" demanded Draco, his bad temper bubbling in his system once more.

"What look?"

"_That_ look!" yelled Draco. "You look like – like – you _pity_ me or something."

Hermione's eyebrows knotted with consternation. "I don't pity _you_ – if there's anyone who deserves my commiseration it's our spouses," she said frankly, irritated herself.

"Ugh!" groaned Draco, pulling himself off her and sitting on the edge of the Extended leather backseat in frustration. "Don't you ruin this for me, Granger; no, don't you _dare_."

"I don't think things can get any more ruined than this," mumbled Hermione sarcastically.

"Is it even possible for you to wound my ego any fucking _further_?! When I finally experience once again a _goddamn good fuckfest_ –" bellowed Draco, seemingly oblivious to Hermione's grumble, "– there you are, grumbling about how much you _regret_ sleeping with me –"

"I told you I didn't regret anything!" explained Hermione, now yelling herself.

"Then why the _fuck_ are we having this conversation?!"

Hermione had half a mind to retort, but decided against it. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and crushed his lips to hers, fed on them like a hungry dog to a bone she did. His anger, her anger – both greatly magnified to the wild and untamed way they took pleasure in each other's mouths.

And then Draco pushed her back down onto the leather seats again, trapping her wrists and hands over her head, and impaled her with his admirable length without any forewarning.

This time, their lovemaking didn't hold any of the tenderness as it had previously. It was purely prurient, lustful, and they reveled in their own wanton desires as their hips rocked back and forth against each other's. They mated like hungry savages, and as soon as she reached the pinnacle Hermione let out an abandoned scream.

But Draco was not finished with her, however. Without pausing to let her rest from her release he continued to move inside her, and Hermione, disoriented, felt her head pool with incoherent thoughts and feral sensations.

_Was it possible? How?_

She didn't think she was capable of having another orgasm – _without pausing for a little while, anyway_ – but she felt it coming. Oh, she definitely could feel it coming now. Another one, a second one, one right after the first. Sharp rasps of breath escaped her mouth, her back arched against him, and there it was, once again, the delicious climax – just around the corner – any moment now –

Draco pulled back slightly, and stopped his movements. Hermione's heartbeat thundered against her ears as her frustrated body thawed.

"What are you doing?" she rasped out to him, clearly chafed.

Without answering, he plunged himself in her again, and started to move, move, move. In, out, up, down… The climax was so near, she could almost taste it! It was –

Draco stopped once more.

"_Goddamn_ it!" yelled Hermione, yanking his blond hair violently.

"Frustrated now, Granger?" mocked Draco cruelly. "So near, and yet so far…"

"_Fuck_ you," said Hermione darkly (she made a mental note that this was the first time she'd ever said _that_ to another), and squirmed beneath his body's grip. If Malfoy was not going to let her get her release, she'd seek for it herself then. But Draco was too heavy upon her, and try as hard as she might to buck her hips on her own, her futile attempt at it could not do so.

"You'll fuck me now?" said Draco to her, and he inserted a finger – _Was that even possible?!_ – where their bodies were joined at the hip. The level of pleasure just zoomed from a million to a billion, and Hermione could only gibber, as her mind was swimming in deep and churning waters.

"Yes, I'll fuck you," Hermione spat out heedlessly, only the sense of release fueling her mind.

And with that, Draco slammed into her once again, not withdrawing his finger from her cleft. The movement of his manhood – the up and down movements – contrasted heavily with the way his finger created lazy circles inside of her. Hermione didn't think this sort of gratification was even probable at all _– Ron didn't know this!_ – and everything seemed, plainly, surreal.

Hermione didn't notice that she'd suddenly pulled Draco's face to her to kiss him as they'd rocked against each other. She liked it better when they were joined at the hips _and_ at the lips.

The feeling was mutual. Draco felt the same thing.

* * *

"What time is it?" Hermione garbled later on as soon as she'd found the strength to move her body and face Draco.

"I don't know." _And quite frankly, I couldn't care less._

Gingerly, Hermione raised her head to look at the digital clock on her car's dashboard. She sounded a passionate expletive, which resulted in Draco opening his eyes to look at her in surprise and amusement.

"Didn't think you were a potty mouth, Granger," he teased lightly, and nuzzled at her ear.

"I'm serious, Malfoy. We'd better get home."

"Fine," he grumbled, and slowly peeled himself off Hermione. He took the time to put his pants on, and helped Hermione gather her hair up into a messy ponytail.

"I can do this myself," griped Hermione, although Draco saw there was no way she could. Both her hands shook wildly and frantically as they gripped her hair, and Draco had to put his hands over hers to calm the frenzied shaking.

"Granger." He put his chin on her shoulder to nuzzle the side of her throat.

Hermione's only reply was a stuttering breath, and Draco's assumptions were confirmed. She felt guilty for what had happened, and, on top of that, anxiety was undoubtedly eating away at her stomach.

"Weasley will not find out about this. And neither will Astoria," he assured her. "What happens in this car stays in the car."

Hermione stiffened. "It's not only that which I'm worried about." Her voice cracked. "What about Rosie? What if – if – _you're_ her father –"

The main essence of what had resulted to this dangerous liaison/proposal almost left Draco's mind as he blinked, momentarily stunned by her words. _Of course. The reason I'd had this fuckfest with Granger was because she'd come to me and said there was a possibility that Rosie Weasley could be a member of the Malfoy clan._

Mind-boggling sex with Hermione seemed to make him forget about the whole point of everything.

"Then I'll take care of my daughter, as any father would," replied Draco, taking quite too long to answer. He wouldn't deny his daughter of anything, he realized, be it a former Weasley… _if_ he had one, that is.

"I know you would," said Hermione almost exasperatedly. "I'm worried about Ron. And your Astoria. They'd get the worst damage here. They'd feel betrayed, and hurt, and, and…"

"Everyone makes mistakes, Granger." My_ Astoria_, scoffed Draco privately.

"But not something as big as this!" countered Hermione heatedly. "Our whole families are at risk of breaking apart once this gets out –"

"And that is why I made my proposal," interrupted Draco too calmly. "We have a week, Granger. An entire week of nothing but pure bliss. Surely you liked what happened a while ago?"

"I did," she finally admitted in a small voice. "It made me forget everything for a while."

"Likewise," said Draco. "We have a small, rather _insignificant_ slice of happiness before experiencing an eternity of the probability of having both our spouses storming out on us and our daughter and son hating us."

"Selfishness will hardly get us anywhere," countered Hermione, but she was unable to speak again as Draco caught her full lower lip between his teeth and let his warm and wet tongue glide over it, _slowly_. Automatically, Hermione gave a sigh of reluctant satisfaction. That trivial sigh sent warm waves of feverish desire all over Draco's entire frame once again and pooled itself between his thighs.

"It's already a quarter to six," Hermione reminded him, her voice hot and heavy against his ears. "I usually get home by five."

"Tell the weasel you 'got stuck in traffic.'"

"Hmm…"

And moments later, after clearing her head of Draco Malfoy's spicy male scent, Hermione she proceeded to the corner street of the same Muggle village and dropped the innocent-looking CONFIDENTIAL brown envelope into the red mailbox.

_Day one_, she thought to herself. _I'll need some brushing up on my Fading Charm. I think I have a hickey the size of Africa on my neck…_

* * *

The Greengrasses were one of the wealthiest families in the entire British wizarding population. Daphne and Astoria, the heiresses to the family's fortune, lived extravagantly and luxuriously, and never had to sweat their way for a living. It got so that the only times they worked hard was for school, when they had to tediously memorize spells and names. And although Slytherins, they never were affiliated with Death Eaters and were non-supporters of the Dark Lord. Fabian Greengrass, Jr. was a well-loved politician for the Ministry of Magic, and he and his wife, Celeste, spent most of their time contributing their wealth to charities.

So it was no question that Astoria had a generous spirit and willingly donated to charities, most especially to St. Mungo's.

And it was no question that she didn't know the littlest bit about housework, let alone _cooking_.

"I am _so_ sorry," Astoria apologized to the Malfoys' cook, Meriam, covered in soot, for probably the hundredth time that night.

Meriam Pince had been employed for the Malfoys' for the past generation (it was only _her_ food that Lucius Malfoy had been keen to digest; Dobby had not been able to meet his standards when it came to food). She had dark, wrinkled skin, which contrasted heavily with the white puff of hair resting on her head. While she was a woman of exceptional size, she moved with ease and grace around the kitchen. Astoria liked the woman immediately upon meeting her, and Scorpius had grown a fondness for her growing up, whilst Draco regarded her as how he had when he had been younger – indifferent. Probably it had something to do with the fact that she was a Squib.

"S'okay, mistress," replied Meriam, sniffing with difficulty as the vile smoke from Astoria's stew filled the immaculate kitchen. "Try and try until you succeed is what they always say."

"You know just how many times I've tried, Meriam." Astoria chuckled somewhat despondently.

"True that. Well, we'll just have to try harder," said Meriam, and she began to clean up the untidy spill Astoria had made on the stove with her sponge.

Astoria aided her as she did it, flicking her wand from her apron and siphoning her embarrassing mess.

They tried again, Astoria learning to cook the Muggle way. The clam chowder bubbled thickly in the pot, and Astoria used her bare hand to swirl the ladle round and round and mix the thick broth.

"Clam chowders are the easiest to make, mistress," assured Meriam as she watched Astoria mix. "It won't be too long before you get this right."

"I hope so."

Astoria knew for a fact that she didn't need to learn how to cook the Muggle way. She didn't need to learn how to cook, period. She had elves and maids do it for her, but after accidentally taking hold of a Muggle cookbook that Meriam owned one day, one quote stuck with her and made her determined to learn the art of using a ladle.

_The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach._

"Master Malfoy has just arrived, mistress," squeaked Wella, appearing with a small _pop_ at the kitchen door.

Anxiously, Astoria ladled her stew into a crystal bowl and examined it. It looked… normal, the way Meriam's looked. She wanted to have a sample, but a voice in her mind told her she wanted _Draco_ to have the first taste. And so, with a nervous look at her friend Meriam, she delicately carried the bowl out the kitchen and to Draco, who was beginning to escalate the grand marble staircase.

"Good evening," said Astoria to him, her lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners with a poised smile.

Draco eyebrows knotted slightly. "What happened to you?" he asked with incredulity as he eyed her tousled appearance.

_I should've looked at a mirror first. There must be soot on my face –_

"Oh," said Astoria with an air of nonchalance, patting her auburn hair, "I was… cooking."

This time, Draco arched a pale eyebrow. "Then what is the purpose of me hiring a bloody house-elf and a cook?"

Astoria chose not to retort at that. "I made this for you," she said instead, thrusting the bowl forward gracefully. Demanding, but not desperate.

"_You_ cooked this?"

Astoria nodded and watched as her husband, apprehensive, picked up the silver utensil and dipped it into the warm broth and into his mouth. Immediately, Draco let out a choke, and then a wild series of coughs.

Astoria felt her eyes pool with unspoken tears at the plain revulsion on her husband's face.

"You call that _food_?!" said Draco in disbelief. "Did you dump a pound of salt in the pot?!"

"I'm sorry," said Astoria in a strained, robotic voice. "I should've sampled it first."

"I am not your bloody guinea pig, Astoria."

"Don't worry." She cleared her throat; the sobs were beginning to wrench their way upwards. "I'll make sure to keep the level of saltiness to a minimum next time."

And then she walked away from him, using every ounce of control not to run out of the room with her hands over her face like how she wanted to.

_Control, Astoria. Control…_

It's the only way to keep him.

* * *

[A/N: Five days and an update! Now that's more like it. :D  
Sorry for Draco's rottenness/hostility towards his wife! There would be a reveal on why he is this way towards Astoria in a future chapter, and I promise to justify his sour demeanor. (Besides, I don't think Astoria deserves to be treated this way without an explanation. It's _cruel_.)  
Yes, it's a filler chapter (and rather boring chapter, I might say. SORRY!), but I hope you guys don't hate meee. I don't know how I fare with the lemons, so please lend me your thoughts and leave a review! Thanks for reading, favoriting, following, and _especially_ for reviewing! :) –Nina]


	11. Rules and Suspicions

[A/N: Rated M for reasons.]

CHAPTER 11: Rules and Suspicions

_Rule One: You call me Draco, and I'll call you Hermione. During intercourse anyway. None of that rude name-calling thing._

Day three.

The fact that she was enjoying a paramour in the person of Draco Malfoy was by all means unacceptable. But she found it quite pleasurable – or rather, she found _him_ pleasurable.

And the other fact that plagued her mind in the past – two words: _Death Eater _– she'd seemed to completely forget about.

Almost.

"Where are you taking me?!" protested Hermione as they walked amongst the throng of witches and wizards at Diagon Alley, Draco's hand clamped tightly on her arm.

"I told you, I've arranged a few things. I'm sick of the bloody car and the bloody limited space."

Hermione looked at him in with wide eyes. "What do you need _space_ for?"

Draco leered at her. "For variety," he whispered in her hear, the innuendo clearly sounding in his tone. His warm breath caused goosebumps to appear in her flesh, and it wasn't the bad kind.

He steered her into a dark alley, and the wooden street sign clearly indicated where they were exactly.

"KNOCKTURN ALLEY?! You brought me _here_?"

Hermione found herself, not for the first time, at Knockturn Alley. She'd stepped at the dark wizards' shopping destination when she'd been young, and for the same reason as she did now: Draco Malfoy.

Draco shrugged. "Most convenient place for our little arrangement, I think. I didn't think Potter nor Weasley ever steps foot in here, and neither does Astoria."

"But this is a horrible place." Hermione wrinkled her nose as a toothless old man ogled at her from the inside of a dingy shop.

Without giving an answer, Draco had steered her over to a dark corner alley and knocked at the back door of some pub. The wooden door was rotten and peeling, and Hermione felt herself, for the first time, regretful of the whole arrangement.

"Quit your bellyaching," said Draco to her in a clipped tone, and immediately, a rather formidable-looking woman appeared at the door, her dark eyes glinting maliciously, but, after recognizing Draco, she replaced the former emotion with a strained look of surprise.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Malfoy!" she croaked out. "Your room is all but ready for you." And then to Hermione she said, "And I'm assuming this is your wife, Astoria?"

"Oh, yes," said Draco, unflustered. Hermione had to hand it to him – he was a _very_ smooth liar.

"Well, come on in!" said the woman, and Draco and Hermione stepped through the threshold. "I am extremely ecstatic that you two have decided to spend your anniversary here. We haven't had any bookers for the longest time."

_And for good reason_, thought Hermione wryly as her eyes wandered around the shop. Hermione had never seen such a miserable little pub. Dust and cobwebs littered the expanse of the place, and there wasn't a single customer in sight. The filthy seats looked as though they haven't been sat on for the longest period and the glasses behind the counter seemed untouched since the dawn of time.

No one in their right minds would want to spend their honeymoon _here_, let alone an anniversary.

She wanted to scream at Draco, but Draco had pulled her up the dusty, rickety staircase and into one of the many unoccupied rooms.

As soon as Draco had made certain the _Muffliato_ spell had been cast on the room, Hermione rounded on him. "You couldn't pick a better place?" she asked him sarcastically.

"I've told you, this is the most convenient option we have," he said matter-of-factly. "There are far too many people at the Leaky Cauldron, and the Three Broomsticks proved to be somewhat… _fertile_ for us."

Hermione blushed at that, and immediately thought of Rosie.

"And besides, the room isn't so bad… I think."

Hermione let her eyes wander. The room, compared to the pub itself, was not as completely repulsive. Sure, the furniture seemed to be somewhat old, bordering even on prehistoric, but they were orderly, at least. The woman downstairs seemed to have cleaned the whole room in preparation for Draco's arrival, and the white bedspreads were freshly-laundered and very straight, although yellowing. He was right. The entire room was, at least, tolerable.

"Plus, the shower works." Draco pointed his chin towards the solitary door off the left side of the room, and leered at Hermione.

"I am still angry with you," said Hermione, but only halfheartedly.

"To make up for it, I'll shag you at the Malfoy Manor one of these days. You'll like the master bedroom. And the bathtub." Draco wrapped both his arms around her waist and started to peck at the sensitive skin on her neck.

Hermione snickered at the ludicrousness of the idea, but, admittedly, the sense of danger appealed to her. "I wouldn't disrespect your wife in that way," she breathed, her fingers entangling themselves at his hair.

"We'll be sneaky. I'll lure Astoria and the busybodies out."

"I thought you wanted a shower?"

That was the whole purpose of locating a new setting for their covert affair: Draco Malfoy wanted a shower with her. And Merlin knew that it turned her on.

"Get right down to business, don't you?" Draco peeled her shirt over her head, and proceeded in undressing her. When she'd stepped out of her panties she undressed him in turn.

And Draco Malfoy did what he did best: he kissed the wits out of the logical Hermione Granger.

* * *

This is precisely the very thing that consumed Draco's risqué dreams at night during the past few days when they'd made their ridiculous arrangement: a wet and soapy Hermione Granger directly in front of him, right underneath the steady stream of warm water from an overhead shower.

Well, minus the soap. He didn't like the peculiar taste of saltiness and tanginess on his tongue that could only be associated with _soap_ as he tasted every bit of her naked flesh. Her lusty mewls reverberated around the enclosed space of the bathroom as her fingers clung into his wet and dripping hair. They both liked the additional sensation of water droplets in contact with their bare flesh.

How many times have they had orgasm? Too many to count, definitely. But when Draco inserted his fingers inside Hermione's slick passage and worked them the way he knew would turn her on, Hermione felt herself release once more.

"God, Malfoy," she groaned in elation.

Draco's nose wrinkled. "I propose that we lay down a few rules – or rather, _I_ lay down a few rules," he mused as he wrapped his arms around Hermione's satiated body so as not to let her collapse on the tiled floor.

"What rules?" murmured Hermione against his chest, her breathing still shallow and ragged.

"First rule: You call me Draco, and I'll call you Hermione. During intercourse, anyway. None of that rude name-calling thing."

_Mudblood… Death Eater…_

Hermione chuckled, peeking up at Malfoy underneath her wet lashes. "Speak for yourself. You're the one who's been calling me 'Mudblood' his whole life."

"And that –" he paused to kiss the tip of her nose, relieved that she had not brought up the subject of his scar again, "– is going to change, _Hermione_."

"Have I told you how much it turns me on hearing my name on your lips, _Draco_?"

"Not as much as it turns _me_ on hearing _my_ name on your lips."

* * *

"_Sometimes, mate, I feel as though Fay isn't as in love with me as she had been before – as she should be…"_

"_You're worrying over nothing, Dean."_

"_I'm bloody serious, Harry! There's something strange about her; I'd bet even a troll would notice it."_

"_Like what?"_

"_She… dresses up differently now. Like she suddenly cares about what she looks like. She never used to."_

_Harry had laughed. "We're talking about _Fay_ Dunbar, aren't we?"_

"_You're just lucky to have been married to someone who'd fancied you her whole life," Dean had pointed out to my best mate. "And there's something else…"_

"_What else is there?" I'd inquired._

"_She comes home and… smells different. Smells like men's perfume…"_

Ronald Bilius Weasley (now owner of a chain of shops that sold Quidditch supplies), or more commonly known as Ron by most people, got home at his usual hour of seven in the evening that September night (from the company of his school friends) to the smell of lamb chops and the sound of sizzling fry pans coming from the spotless kitchen, both courtesy of his childhood-sweetheart-now-turned-wife, Hermione Granger. Or 'Mione, as he so fondly liked to call her.

After hanging his robes on the coat rack, he made his way around the sitting room and towards the kitchen in _his_ home, the usual feeling of proudness radiating from his every stance. He was tremendously pleased for what he'd accomplished for himself and for his family. When he had been young, his deepest desire was to be the very best amongst his many siblings – but as soon as he'd developed feelings for his Hermione, everything changed. The only thing that concerned him was her constant well-being and comfort.

But there was something else in there. Something he wouldn't tell her, anyway.

He'd dropped his laziness and learned to strive his way to the top, and it was all because of the fact that he wouldn't let his wife and children experience what he'd gone through when he'd been young himself. He loved them far too much.

_Empty_ bank vaults. _Hand-me-down_ robes, books, quills, wands, and all sorts of other things. Nothing _fancy_ to eat for dinner.

He wouldn't let his little Hugo possess another Scabbers, or let his sweet Rosie make do with tacky dress robes.

He _couldn't_. He'd incessantly punish himself if that were the case.

He wanted to acquire a house-elf, even – he didn't see why not when he had money to pay for the bloody thing already – so that he could make Hermione truly feel like the mistress of the Weasley residence and wouldn't have to do any of the housework. Hermione had thrown a fit over it, however, and refused his offer. Guess she'd never really gotten over her little fetish about the whole spew thing.

He liked that about her. She was stubborn, and persistent, and… not fickle.

Ron wrapped his arms around the slim waist of his wife as she made to turn the lamb chops to cook the underside.

"I'm cooking, Ronald," she said to him in a clipped tone as he nuzzled her ear with the tip of his long nose.

Something felt somewhat… off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"You got home late?" asked Ron, ignoring the unfamiliarity of the situation. There was rarely, if ever, a time when he'd gotten home to seeing her cook for him, seeing as how dinner was always ready as soon as he got home.

Hermione nodded, and prodded a thick slice of lamb with the tip of her tongs. She'd always cooked dinner the Muggle way, although Ron was unclear of the reason as to why. "We'd received a bulk order for this, er, what's the name of the book? 'Tea Time with the Brewing Brothers,' I think. The book is all about tea recipes for healing; that's all I could remember."

"Funny name for a book." Ron chuckled.

"Is it?" Hermione eyed him skeptically. "You have a really weird sense of humor, Ronald."

"And I'm beginning to think that you have no sense of humor at all," he teased her, grinning.

Hermione had to laugh, too, and Ron loved the way her chocolate brown eyes crinkled at the sides as she did so. Seventeen years of being married to this witch wasn't enough for him to get his fill of her, and it felt somewhat disconcerting to him when he remembered he couldn't stand the sight of her when they had been children (she'd been a know-it-all and a complete pain in the ass). That didn't matter anymore, however.

He speckled small kisses against the side of her neck and underneath her earlobe as if to justify his thoughts, and he felt Hermione stiffen in his arms.

"Could you pass me those plates?" requested Hermione calmly, but Ron could detect something else in her tone. Hesitation.

Despite not having moved from where he stood at Hermione's back, Ron reached for the plates upon the counter easily, and passed them to her.

"I'll set the table," said Hermione simply, and stepped out from his embrace.

Her brown hair had whipped across his face as she moved away, and Ron finally identified what had been so _off_ to him when he'd nuzzled her ear just moments ago.

She didn't smell of lilacs or lavenders, as she should have.

She smelled strongly of perfume.

_Men's _perfume_._

* * *

_Rule Two: No reservations, no restrictions. We should be able to freely explore each other's sexuality without any trace of inhibitions._

Day four.

Room 7 of The Owl's Lair at Knockturn Alley was filled with the sounds of almost-inaudible brushing of lips against another's, the creaking of the bedsprings, and the whispers and soft murmurs of incomprehensible words.

"Draco – _deeper_, Draco –"

"Shit! Shit! Shit! _Hermione_!"

Both Hermione and Draco tumbled back down to earth from the addicting high, a jumbled mess upon the wrinkled, yellowing sheets. His slick forehead rested heavily upon hers, and her warm and sweet breath washed over his face. It was disconcerting – even impossible, actually – the number of orgasms each individual already had. They had not done anything else but pleasure each other for the past hour, but they were not finished, not satiated enough yet. They weren't even close.

Draco lifted his heavy frame off of Hermione but kept her close, pulling her to his side as soon as his head came in contact with a pillow. This was the couple's preferred resting position: his arm wrapped around her waist and her head resting lightly against his chest.

Draco, whose breathing had not completely evened out yet, shut his heavy lids. "Give me a minute and then we'll go again," he said to her.

Hermione laughed – an exhausted one. "I think I may need more than a minute."

He laughed, amused, and planted a kiss on the witch's forehead. "Fine then. _Two_ minutes."

"Whoopee."

Smiling, Draco turned Hermione's chin towards him and gave her a long, passionate kiss which, despite the fact that he'd said he needed a minute for, resulted in the familiar twitch of his groin. Hermione's fingers entangled themselves in his silky blond hair, pulling him as close as was humanly possible, and they rolled so that he hovered over her.

He kneaded her ample breasts in the palms of his hands and pulled at the cherry nipples, elongating them and making them as hard as marbles. A muffled sigh escaped her lips, and soon the satisfied moans were freely escaping her mouth, filling the room, because of the fact that he'd released her mouth to work his lips over each breast. Her fingernails dug at the skin on his shoulders, which only spurred his lust more.

And then he was kissing, suckling every inch of bare skin, leaving a trail of moisture where his lips had been. And he was moving lower, past her breasts, past her stomach, past her navel (his tongue had dipped into the indentation, ensuing a loud sigh-moan from her lips), and over her hips, down to the insides of her thigh, his teeth biting at the soft skin, and back up the cleft between her legs. He was poised, ready to do something he'd never done to Granger before…

"Draco!" Hermione's panicked, breathy voice broke his concentration. "Stop!"

Draco pulled his head up, encountering a wide-eyed Granger. Puzzled, he asked her, "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she assured him quickly. "Just… stop. You were too close to my, well –"

Draco couldn't quite grasp just what exactly she was getting flustered about. "I intended to do that, Granger," he replied blankly.

"Well, you _can't_," said Hermione with emphasis. "It's… it's off-limits."

Draco gave a bark of disbelieving laughter and a lopsided smirk. "Maybe I should add another rule to the first one." He paused for a moment, deliberating the best way to phrase what he wished to implement. "Second rule: No reservations, no restrictions. We should be able to freely explore each other's sexuality without any trace of inhibitions."

"No," said Hermione curtly, her tone indignant. "I won't let you do it –"

"What is wrong with you?" said Draco incredulously. "If given no choice, women would _beg_ for oral satisfaction from men –"

But the look on Hermione's flushed face stopped Draco short. Not anger, but…

Realization dawned upon the fair-haired's features. "You don't like oral sex," he stated slowly, grasping Hermione's odd mood. Well, maybe _don't like_ was not the suitable term; she looked simply uncomfortable with the whole idea.

Hermione blushed harder, but raised her chin obstinately. "So what if I don't?"

Draco's pale eyebrows shot up, almost becoming obscured by his hair. "Merlin, Granger," he said in surprise, "didn't you know that oral sex is extremely pleasurable for females?"

"Not to me, it isn't," snapped Hermione.

"And we all know the painfully-inexperienced Weaseldick's to blame." He was greeted by one of Hermione's signature scowls (because of the nickname he'd made for her husband), which he plainly ignored. "I don't know how that dickhead managed to have children with you –"

"Stop insulting my husband; he's got nothing to do with this –"

"Oh, he's everything to do with this," interrupted Draco rudely. "He hasn't even scratched the surface when it comes to lovemaking – why, I had to teach you the fundamentals of sex for you to be able to catch up with me. Imagine, you didn't even know about cowgirl style!"

Hermione flushed an even brighter scarlet. "Enough, Draco! I don't need a briefing of what I did and did not know –"

"And oral sex is precisely one of the things you _need_ to know," he interrupted once more as he bobbed his head, coercing her to agree. "I'm another set of lips, Granger. You could give me a shot at this; I'm certain you'd find me pleasurable." He gave her an impish wink.

"Once again, the famous Malfoy arrogance gets in the way."

"Malfoy arrogance," he scoffed. "But, all arrogance aside, I'm trying to explain something. If you are afraid of anything, let me just assure you that oral sex is as good as intercourse –"

All of a sudden, something in Hermione seemed to snap. "Well, it's uncomfortable for me! It's uncomfortable the way Ron does it!" she snapped. "He nips me with his _teeth_. It doesn't feel nice. It doesn't feel 'as good as intercourse,' as you worded it so casually."

Draco let out an amused hoot of laughter. "I knew it! The weasel didn't know what he was doing in bed half the time! I'd think you were a virgin, for crying out loud, if I weren't aware of the fact that you were married with two children."

Firmly, Hermione stated, "You're not swaying me from my decision."

"After everything that's happened – _four days of sex_ – you don't _trust_ me?" Draco felt a pang of uneasiness eating away at his stomach. Why should it bother him that she didn't trust him? It wasn't like they were friends; they were nothing more than shagging buddies, two individuals keen on the idea of pleasurable release…

Nothing more than that.

"It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that –"

"I have never hurt you in bed, Hermione."

But if they were nothing more than fuck-friends, then why was he so ardent on gaining her trust?

_It's not her trust you're gaining, dickbrain! You want a taste of her honeypot!_ the rational side of him stated.

Hmm. Made sense.

"I-I know you haven't," Hermione stammered out. For some reason, she felt guilt wash over her, and it was _irrational_. "But –"

"Then there is no reason for me to hurt you now."

Silence. A stretched-out silence, with only the close proximity of beating hearts breaking it.

Decision-making was always painfully tedious, but as soon as the decision was made, the point of pondering over it for that measly answer seemed somewhat undeserving of it.

"Okay."

At her consent, Draco then lowered himself once more on Hermione's body, not letting his heated gaze break free from hers. Hermione swallowed noisily as his breath caressed the hairs between her legs and his fingertips graze the insides of her thighs in an effort to calm her down.

He gave a small blow of air, and Hermione shivered.

Gently nudging her knees apart, Draco let his tongue wash over the folds of his lover's most sensitive spot and heard Hermione's deep sigh. If there was anything he'd been an expert on, it was oral sex (or so he liked to think; his previous… _conquests_ had often screamed with ecstasy at his tongue skills). Her female musk tasted tangy and wonderful and made him want her more, if that was even possible. He took his time, making the movements of his tongue deliberate and painstakingly slow, wishing for her to gain as much pleasure as she could from the contact. Wishing to be the one to grant her those pleasures. After all, he didn't expect anyone else to. He didn't _want_ anyone else to.

Certainly not Weasley.

He relished Hermione's sighs and moans, all on _his_ account.

Damn. Fucking Granger was making his brain all selfish.

Selfishness aside, he concentrated on the job at hand, pushing her over the edge.

Tongue. Lips. And just the right amount of pressure of teeth.

But despite the fact that he'd told himself not to think of anything else but Granger's pleasure, a small voice in the back of his mind mumbled. Just a mumble, really, but mumbles are sometimes more annoying than shouts. Especially when it was an incessant babbling.

And what did it say?

_Just try and top _this_, Weasley._

"Y-you didn't hurt me," said Hermione moments later as he climbed back up her body, her breathing uneven and rough.

"Because I care, Granger. Because I fucking _care_."

As soon as he'd said that 'c' word – a word he _never_ used – something close to contentment (and it wasn't from the sex, mind you) swept over Hermione's beautiful features.

_Fuck. I take that back._

_Or not._

* * *

Dinner was always an elaborate affair at the Malfoy Manor, no matter what the date or the occasion. Everyday seemed as though there was a feast. Banquets in which the Malfoys hosted they had a self-refilling buffet table. Invited guests would always commend them for their delectable and wonderful food, and Astoria Malfoy would smile proudly and gesture flamboyantly towards her husband. Of course, Draco would only simper – he was excruciatingly bad at socializing with people – and disappear just as soon as he'd come. He'd get a firm lecture about it afterwards, he'd drown out her words, and at the next social gathering he would be back to his usual antisocial self. It got so much that Astoria became the couple's mouthpiece as they attended social gatherings.

This night was no different. Astoria had put on an emerald green dress that ended just above her knees (Draco would throw a fit if she went any higher than that, not that she didn't want to try it), put a pair of teardrop-shaped diamond earrings on, and recited an incantation that had her red hair curled into loose waves. As she was getting ready to get out of the bedroom, Draco's voiced floated through the closed door (he appeared to be instructing the maid, Carlotta, about something), and Astoria's heart gave a great leap.

_He's here_, she thought happily, thinking about seeing Draco and having dinner together.

There was no doubt at all that Astoria loved her husband, though he clearly did not reciprocate her feelings in the slightest bit, as what was indicated by the way he'd looked blankly and indifferently at her as soon as he'd entered their bedroom door.

"Good evening," called Astoria out pleasantly although composedly. She'd always acted so collected whenever she was in his presence and to others, because she felt it was what he _preferred_ for her to act like.

Draco nodded coldly, as usual, and didn't say anything.

"So, how do I look?" asked Astoria apprehensively, and her heart beat sharply against her chest as she watched as her husband gaze upon her for a fleeting moment.

It was a fleeting moment, but a gaze nonetheless.

"You look nice."

Whoever said that the word "nice" was the worst word in the English language must've been out of complete sanity.

"Thank you."

Draco made to remove his clothing to get himself ready for dinner, pulling his robe off his shoulders.

It was a risky move, and Astoria wanted to kick herself for it, but she did it anyway. "Let me help you with that," she offered him quickly, expecting the worst.

_Rejection, Tori, rejection…_

But Draco had shrugged. Not shrugged _her off_, just plainly _shrugged_. "Alright," he grunted, and Astoria stepped towards where he stood, her heart thrumming wildly against her ears, and her hands fumbling in front of her as she reached over and peeled his robe off from his back.

_First time_! she yelled in ecstasy inwardly, hardly containing her emotions. Her husband had agreed to let her help him get ready for dinner for the first time. A euphoric grin was ever-present on her face.

_Thank Merlin he has his back turned to me._

Draco breezed through the buttons on his black shirt and pulled it off his body, and Astoria was left gawking at the sight of her husband's muscular torso, although she'd seen him naked plenty of times. Even from the back he was simply divine. Her round onyx orbs ogled greedily at the flawlessness of Draco's structure, and she gazed intently at the expanse of it, drinking every dent of him in and tattooing it forever in her mind. The minuscule mole directly at his shoulder blades, the one she'd taken quite a liking to, caught her attention fully… if only it weren't for the fact that right next to it, there was an unwanted, yet so very recognizable, mark.

An oval-shaped mark. A purple mark.

A _hickey_.

_Oh, Merlin, not again._

And she was _certain_ she hadn't been the one to give Draco this – they hadn't been in bed together for almost a week now – and it crushed her plainly where she stood. Her heart, like how it did so many times, crumbled to the pit of her stomach, making her throat suddenly very dry and her eyes water. He _promised_, didn't he? He promised her he wouldn't sleep with other women anymore! Why was he suddenly breaking that promise? Why _now_, when she was finally beginning to trust him again? _Why_?

Astoria knew she wanted to confront him – to shout at him again, and again, and again, and _again_, until he got the message clearly that she wasn't willing to share him with other women (his polygamy was the only thing that made her lose her control and temper) – but she knew she was tired of it all. She was tired of arguing with him, she was tired of being angry with him, she was tired of _him_ being angry with _her_.

But never, _never_ would she grow tired of forgiving her husband. Of loving Draco.

Never.

And so she bent forth and pressed her lips tightly against the mark and suckled, as though that futile attempt could make that hickey belong to her. She wished to create a darker hickey upon his snow white skin, a hickey that undoubtedly would state that he belonged to her and no one else. I_ am Mrs. Malfoy, you little slut, and you can't do anything about it… whoever the bloody hell you are._

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Draco's voice broke inside her thoughts.

Astoria pulled her head back and smiled calmly at Draco. "I missed your mole, that's all," she said, in a remarkably unruffled voice. She'd already perfected her constant hold on controlling her emotions.

"There'd better not be lipstick on my back," said Draco to her, his eyes slightly narrowed with irritation.

"I think lipstick belongs to lips," murmured Astoria to him, and, swiftly, she stood on her tiptoes to touch their lips together, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

She kissed Draco with more force than necessary, something that wasn't anything like Astoria _at all_.

No control there.

It was the first time she'd acted brazenly, and they both knew that.

Draco pushed her away, almost too roughly. "What the hell…?"

"It wasn't _hell_, Draco." Astoria pursed her lips. "It was heaven."

And then she leaned in again to kiss him, tenderly this time. She could almost hear the automatic click in Draco's brain that commanded him to kiss her back; she felt the strain in the entire kiss.

"What do you say to some dessert before dinner?" she breathed out. _You're pushing your luck, Greengrass. _The attempt was so pitiable, she could almost hear the quotation marks in the innuendo.

Draco cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "If you're not going to help me dress for dinner then I would prefer it more if you'd just _get out_," he told her impatiently.

It would've been _less_ painful if he'd literally kicked her out of the room.

Because as soon as she turned and reached the wide bedroom doors a faint mumble in Draco's low voice floated to her ears.

"_Pathetic_."

* * *

_Rule Three: We are happily unwed – no mention of our spouses at all – whenever we are together._

Day five.

She'd had her _experience_ – now it was time for his.

She was undeniably inept, yet that same flaw made everything more feral and raw, and she gave him none of the rhythmic up-and-down movement that he so often received from others. On the contrary, the hesitation of her tongue on his length made his blood pulse wildly and made him quite uncertain on just what exactly she would do next.

And then she bit down at the tip. The gesture wasn't hard, but it was enough to give rise to a guttural growl from deep within his throat.

"Granger, stop it," Draco gasped out.

She didn't stop, however.

"Granger," he huffed, "I said _stop_."

No response.

"Granger, I will _fucking_ _come_ in your mouth – argh!"

Speak of the devil… and it shall arrive.

Draco could almost touch the palpable sense of awkwardness filling the atmosphere at what just occurred. He felt Hermione stiffen from where she was positioned between his legs and pitied the woman for what she'd just consumed. Merlin knew she hadn't done that before.

"I told you to stop, didn't I?" he chastised her breathlessly as he languidly pulled her up to rest her upon his chest.

"I-I got carried away."

Draco opened one lazy gray eye and scrutinized her. "No gag reflex?"

Hermione's forehead wrinkled. "Why? Was that poisonous?"

Draco let out a tired laugh laced with disbelief. He didn't know why he was so tired; it was the first time he'd gotten tired because of something as inconsequential as _orgasm_. "I just thought you'd be disgusted with the whole routine of swallowing my ejaculation."

"Well, then consider this another one of my _feats_." She grinned.

Draco didn't answer her, and instead closed his eyes tiredly. A small smile was present on his lips. Hermione stared at her resting _friend with benefits_: at the blond hair upon his head, at his sharp features, the long eyelashes tickling his cheeks, that full bottom lip; and realized that Astoria Greengrass – _more like Green_rash, she thought somewhat bitterly – was the luckiest witch on earth.

She'd let him rest for a while. She was that generous today.

If someone had told her she'd enjoy this arrangement with _Draco Malfoy_ a week ago, she would've said that _that_ person was completely mental.

And if someone had told her she would even grow _fond_ ofDraco Malfoy, she would've said that she _herself_ was going mental.

Draco's blond eyelashes fluttered soon after, and his stormy gray eyes slowly opened.

He had beautiful eyes, eyes that stretched down to his soul…

It was just too bad that he'd created barriers in them.

Draco blinked, anxious of Hermione's intense scrutiny for some reason. "Why are you staring at me that way?"

Hermione blinked, too. "What way? This is how I often stare at you –"

"You know what? Never mind."

And it was true. There was nothing unusual about Hermione's gaze, nothing at all; it was just the perception of the gaze in someone else's mind that made all the difference.

"Merlin, Draco, do you always have an erection?" asked Hermione then, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"With you I do." Draco smirked, regaining his swagger back.

"Should I feel flattered?"

"Highly."

Hermione giggled, and immediately stopped herself. Why did she often find herself acting like a daft, giggly teenager whenever she was with him? "And I suppose you've said those famous lines to some other woman, presumably your wife."

"Astoria? Oh, please. My erection has just gone limp," replied Draco flatly, rolling his eyes.

"Is that how much you detest making love to your own _wife_?"

Draco didn't answer at once, but after a while said, rather cynically, "There's more to the story, I assure you."

"You couldn't tell me?"

_I want to know more about you, Draco. I want to know for what reason you became a Death Eater, for what reason you married Astoria…_

"Soon. Or not." He smirked.

"And I have never, not even once, heard you say anything nice about your wife. Nor mention her at all," Hermione realized, clamping her mouth tightly after that in case her mouth stupidly decided to rant onwards. She had decided not to broach the subject of Death Eaters.

"Astoria means _nothing_ to me. And because I don't like you mentioning Weasley, either," said Draco in a smooth tone. Despite the seeming lack of emotion, Hermione could, for the first time, sense strong sentiments brewing underneath the surface.

"I-I was just asking –"

"Ugh! I don't like this topic of conversation anymore," snapped Draco with impatience. "Third rule: we are happily unwed – no mention of our spouses at all – whenever we are together."

"And why should all rules come from you?" mumbled Hermione, somewhat grudgingly.

But she was unable to keep a firm grasp on the argument for Draco's lips moved urgently upon hers.

Happily unwed…

_Maybe happily wed with _you_ would make the said rule much more appealing._

* * *

[A/N: I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I've finished this fic (Yay!) so updates should be coming regularly now. :) I'm just re-reading the next chapters to make sure I haven't missed any details. :D

People probably hate me for the breezy romance between our favorite couple, but I honestly have no idea how to make this any more slow-paced. *wails* I envy writers who make couples falling in love seem so slow and realistic. *wails again* But, on a happier note, people do read the story despite the fact that I'm terrible! :D Thanks to those who've read, favorited, followed, and _especially_ to those who've reviewed. You guys are the best! :)

P.S. What do you think of my portrayal of Ron? In hindsight, I think he's a little _too_ OOC, no? :( don't forget to lend me your thoughts on this! –Nina]

* * *

This is the last in a series of boring chapters. Come Chapter 12, things will start unraveling. (Promise!)

**PREVIEW OF NEXT CHAPTER:**

"_You're leaving me," he said slowly, not wanting his temper to burst, "for WEASLEY?!"_

"_He's my husband," interrupted Hermione matter-of-factly. "And if you don't get out of the way I will –"_

"_THEN WHAT ABOUT ME?! WHAT AM I TO YOU?!" he demanded._

_The words made Hermione flinch, but she refrained herself from indicating any sort of emotion on her face. Instead, she took the time to give the blond man a cold glare and disdainful glance from head to toe. "A person," she said dismissively._

"_A person you make love to," said Draco without a trace of trying to hide his emotions._

"_A person I have sex with," she corrected him. "And what right do you have in asking me that question when you made it clear just a moment ago that you and I are just sex –"_


	12. Anniversary

[A/N: Once again, I give this chapter a Rated M for mature themes.]

CHAPTER 12: Anniversary

Day six.

Upon trying a different in-between-sex position, Hermione decided that she liked the new one considerably better.

She didn't know what, but there was definitely something with the way Draco's legs molded together with hers, or the way his warm breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck (causing her to involuntarily shiver, but in a good way), that made this new position and the contact between them seem somewhat more… _intimate_.

Just a month ago, she never would've been able to string the words 'Draco Malfoy' and 'intimate' in the same sentence.

And so she relished in the feel of the coarse hairs on his chest caressing her bare back and melted herself even deeper against him, if that was even possible.

As though knowing that she was up from her slumber now, his grip on her waist tightened, and his fingers stroked her stomach, her navel, down, down…

A sensual sigh escaped Hermione's lips as soon as Draco's hand came in contact with the moist opening between her thighs, and she threw her head back when he'd inserted his fingers in her, allowing a moan to escape her parted, wet lips.

"You like this?" Draco's husky whisper sounded in her heavy ears, his fingers probing deeper.

"I like it." And, as if to prove her point, another moan issued from her lips, one louder than the previous one she'd made, and her fingernails dug into the muscled skin of his forearm, leaving crescent moon shapes along the flawless white skin.

He worked the magic of his fingers inside her, stroking the right places, setting the right pace, until he had her quaking with abandon in his arms. He whispered sweet nothings onto the skin of her neck, lulling her into a place that she knew she'd feel guilty for afterwards. But Hermione knew she had never felt this way towards Ron's lovemaking. Never. Never felt – so good – so contented – so blissful –

But why was Draco Malfoy being so selfless all of a sudden? It was like he enjoyed seeing her release more than getting his fair share of it. He was getting the shorter end of the stick and gave more than what she'd initially bargained for. It wasn't that she was complaining – it was just… surprising.

Not Malfoy-ish at all.

This arrangement – whatever _this_ was – didn't make her feel disgusted with herself, as she thought she would be. She didn't think she would be able to last six days, frankly. On the contrary, it made her feel almost… _euphoric_. Hermione was never one to use prohibited drugs (so she didn't know what it felt like to be under the influence of these), but it appeared to be a good analogy. Sex seemed to satiate and fill her system the way drugs filled the commonplace drug user's.

Or maybe it wasn't the sex at all. Maybe it was Draco himself.

Suddenly, she felt she needed to give something back – try something she'd never done before, but knew from common knowledge that it was what most men wanted…

She pulled herself free from Draco's embrace and straddled his hips, coming across a playful grin upon the latter's lips.

"Wow. Pretty brazen, Granger," smirked Draco, clearly benefiting from the position.

"I just –" She paused, somewhat self-conscious about what she was going to do. "Put your arms over your head, please," she murmured at last, her voice noticeably trembling.

"_Please_?" echoed Draco, his voice laced with amusement and mirth. "What are we, having a tea party?"

"Just do it," bade Hermione uncomfortably. He was not helping at all in relieving just a tiny bit of her uneasiness! "I want to… try something."

"For the first time, Miss Granger here has a trick up her sleeve."

Despite the jibes, he obeyed her, raising his muscled arms – and that tainted forearm, which, mind you, she had gotten over already – over his head, a grin ever-present upon his face.

Hermione reached an arm across and picked up the wand that nestled upon the wooden surface of the bedside table, her Gryffindor tenacity acting for her. Now that Draco was in the exact position she wanted him to be in, there was no doubt that he wouldn't like what was coming for him…

Draco looked apprehensively at the wand, but didn't think too much of it. _Maybe she'd have whipped cream shooting out of the tip… Merlin, I'd love to see her covered in that._

"_Incarcerous_."

Whatever Draco's wild fantasies might've contained, it certainly did not involve this. He felt it, then. Felt the roughness of the rope as it snaked itself around his wrists and bound him to the railing of the headboard. What was the point in shooting a contemptuous look at the sly witch when the spell had already worked and that he could no longer do anything about it, seeing as how he was helpless and under her mercy?

Hermione, on the contrary, definitely hadn't expected this sort of reaction. Draco was suddenly thrashing his body, tugging at his hands in an attempt to remove the ropes, kicking his legs. Obviously, he did not like being tied to the headboard. What she'd anticipated was a naughty Malfoy smirk, nothing more.

"What the fuck, Granger?" he spat out in disbelief, maybe even anger, as he glanced at his tied hands. "Let me go!"

"I-I thought you would like this –"

"Like it?! Fuck this! I don't like being handicapped, especially not by you –"

"You're not handicapped!" countered Hermione hotly, after he'd sneered the word _you_. "I told you I wanted to try something –"

"Well, _I_ don't want to try this –"

"Will you shut up and let me do this for once!" screamed Hermione finally. And, on a lower, and more seductive note (she hoped) she added, "You will like this. I promise –"

"No! Whatever it is you're planning to do, you are not doing it with these fucking ropes over my wrists –"

"What is wrong with you?! I thought all men wanted this –"

"Well, I am not _all men_ –"

"Draco, you are being irrationally childish! I am not going to do anything that might hurt you."

"Hermione," he rasped out through his teeth, but the determined look upon Hermione's face made him drop his argument. Draco sucked in a nervous breath and closed his eyes in an attempt to relax. Well, let Granger get her way with him today. But… to _hell_ with the ropes! He didn't like the feeling of – he tugged once more at the bindings futilely – _goddamn_ it –

"Fine," he whispered darkly. "But try anything funny, Granger, and I will hex you – _what the fuck_!"

He'd cursed angrily once more, for Hermione had _Accio'd_ something else – the blue tie he wore today. Suddenly, he knew what it was for even without Hermione telling him. And he did not like it one bit.

"Don't you _dare_ put that over my eyes," threatened Draco, whose eyes scanned the object in Hermione's hand warily.

Hermione looked at her lover with a puzzled expression, her forehead knotted slightly. Why was Draco getting so worked up over, firstly, being tied to the bed, and next, to having a blindfold over his eyes? The Muggle romance books she'd read suggested that men were suckers for this kind of sex trick – but why was Draco's reaction so starkly different?

"The _Incarcerous_ is bad enough, Hermione!" exploded Draco. "Don't you fucking dare put that over my eyes, or so Merlin help me, I _will_ hex you."

"It's just a blindfold –" Hermione started to reason out.

"That's precisely my point! It's a _bloody_ blindfold!" he growled. "I don't know what the fuck you're doing as I have it on, do I?"

"That's how the trick goes, doesn't it –"

"I don't want to play your games –"

"I am not going to hurt you, Draco!" said Hermione exasperatedly. "How many times do I have to repeat that –"

"Hurt me," he scoffed, cutting her off. "You couldn't hurt a fly."

"Then what are we having this argument for –"

"My problem is that bloody thing! Not you –"

"No!" This time, it was Hermione who screamed, who lost her temper. She stared right into Draco's eyes, hers blazing, and thrashed the necktie wildly. "You know what the problem is? The problem is _you_! _You_ don't trust anybody! That's what the problem is!"

Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "_Trust_," he sneered. "Tell me, Granger, does spreading your legs for me entitle you to my _trust_?"

Hermione felt something stab at her stomach. "I think – I think I've certainly gained it –"

"What are we playing hooky for? You know we are just sex," he spat out. "And we both know you don't bloody trust _me_ –"

"You're wrong," said Hermione in a low voice, her eyes brimming with tears.

_Just sex_. The words were painful. But that was the point, wasn't it? That was their agreement. But it still hurt. He didn't deserve to hear this – he didn't –

Still, she said it anyway.

"I-I'm beginning to. I want to." _Trust you…_

_Fuck this_, thought Draco, as the raw words escaped Hermione's mouth. No, he corrected himself. Her words weren't the issue. The issue was her _face_. And the expression on it. Damn it! He'd rather be burned in eternal damnation than be seared just _once_ by the haunting look in Hermione's eyes. He would've run his fingers through his hair (a gesture of disbelief and exasperation he'd grown accustomed to) if only his hands were free.

He was angry. He was angry with Rosie Weasley for starting this, he was angry with Granger for agreeing to it, and he was angry with himself for continuing it.

"Just because you're foolish enough to trust me," he stated frankly, blankly, "doesn't mean that I am thick enough to do so likewise."

Draco wouldn't have been able to hurt Hermione more if he tried.

Hermione's eyes blinked rather quickly as she forced the tears to return to their ducts. "I think – I think that is enough talk with our trust issues," she said in a strained voice.

"Then get that bloody thing off of my face," protested Draco, when he saw that Hermione was, once again, starting with the blindfold.

"No," she countered, unruffled. Her feelings seemed to, as of now, have been shut down. "Since you don't care about me, Malfoy, I don't give a damn about you, too. I will do whatever I want to do with your body whether you like it or not."

Normally, that would've been music to his ears. Kinky. But he wasn't feeling all too aroused by it. "Get off me," he said warningly, thrashing his body in an attempt to buck her off.

"No. Not until I'm finished with you."

"Granger – shit!"

Successfully, and because Draco couldn't do much about it, Hermione accomplished in wrapping the navy blue tie over Draco's silver eyes. She looked vacantly at him, despite her straddling his hips. There was no ounce left of sensuality, no desire in her anymore, because of what had recently been discussed between the both of them. The main reason she wanted the blindfold over his eyes _now_ was so that he wouldn't be able to see the tears flowing freely down her eyes, past her cheeks, and trickled off her chin.

All this time, he still didn't trust her.

On the other hand, Draco, whose heartbeat thundered heavily against his ears, strained the only sense he found useful – the sense of hearing. There was no sound, no scuffling; he definitely could still feel Granger's warmth upon his navel, so he was certain that she hadn't moved from where she sat atop him. But what the hell was she doing? Was she concentrating on some sort of spell, perhaps a _Crucio_, or an _Imperio_? Was she unearthing some sort of painful object, perhaps a knife which she intended to use on him? Damn, it was Melissa all over again if that were the case.

He was deathly afraid of sadomasochistic partners, for one thing. That was why he was afraid of the blindfold. Granger didn't seem like that type of person, though… but what if she was?

And then there was another reason, something else entirely…

He felt warm fingertips caress his bare chest, and he couldn't help the familiar twitch of his groin at that. His breath rasped as the fingers created lazy circles against his skin, slowly moving across his flesh, up his collarbone, his neck, the fingers traced the line of his jaw, his lips, until the familiar pads of Hermione's thumbs traced his cheekbones. And then he felt her lips upon his.

Warm, wet lips, moving slowly, deliberately. The kiss should've incited an excruciating, lustful yearning already for her now, but it, surprisingly, didn't. There were no hot, no heavy intentions behind the kiss – just a simple set of lips, moving against his. The kiss was pure, the kiss was beautiful… The kiss was painful, the kiss was deadly.

Draco would rather have died than to feel something for the Mudblood. He would rather have felt pain, the raw, rough kind.

Pain, yes. The pain of walking through a bridge of broken glass…

… If only Hermione Granger waited for him at the foot of that bridge.

And as if that kiss wasn't bad enough, Hermione had to ease his swelling manhood inside her, too. And he goddamn liked it. Liked it far too much, as he always did. But each sensation felt different somehow.

They never broke the kiss, as she set the pace for their lovemaking. Her movements were slow but steady, urgent but not needy. Definitely not greedy. Slow, pleasing, _perfect_. It was something he'd never tried with anyone before, not just Hermione. Sex for the sake of sex, not for the sake of orgasm. Sex for the sake of joint bodies, not for the sake of racing to finish.

Sex for the sake of love.

With a blinding burst of realization, everything was suddenly clear between the two lovers.

Now they knew.

Now they knew why another term for it was 'making love.'

The might not have been in love with each other at the beginning of their no-strings-attached arrangement…

… But they certainly did make love in the process.

And that wasn't even the worst part, though. No, addressing their feelings and admitting it to their selves wasn't even close.

The worst part was – they were willing, bordering even on _eager_, to sacrifice both their eternally-perfect lives for something as arbitrarily temporary as each other's company.

* * *

Hermione twisted herself from Draco's embrace to quickly glance at the clock upon the bedside drawer.

"I have to go," she said in a clipped tone, propping herself up on her elbows.

Draco's eyes flew open. "What do you mean you have to go?" he retorted after glancing at the clock himself and deciding that it was way too early for her to leave already.

"I have… pressing matters," replied Hermione uncertainly, as she hopped off the bed and began to gather her scattered clothes to hastily dress herself.

"'Pressing matters?' Aren't we past the whole 'talking in riddles' thing now?"

Hermione turned around after finishing to look pointedly at Draco's form reclining against the headboard. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she said sharply.

"Ugh!" said Draco in disbelief. "Just tell me where the fuck you're going," he demanded angrily.

"Alright. It's our anniversary tonight. _Wedding_ anniversary," she clarified slowly, seeing the effect her words had upon him. "Therefore, I have to go home to prepare myself."

Draco almost heard the slamming of his mouth shut as his lover's words repeated themselves in his head. His jaw and fists clenched and, not bothering to even cover his naked form, immediately jumped off the bed to block her way to the door. Aggressively, he pushed her against a wall and trapped her with his body. His breath was heaving – he could almost see the hazy fog of anger, of madness, of irrational jealousy –

"You're leaving me," he said slowly, not wanting his temper to burst, "for WEASLEY?!"

"You wanted to know," replied Hermione sardonically, shrugging.

"MERLIN, HERMIONE!" he growled, raking his fingers angrily at his hair, tugging on the blond strands. "Why – what do you _need_ Weasley for –"

"He's my _husband_," interrupted Hermione matter-of-factly. "And if you don't get out of the way I will –"

"THEN WHAT ABOUT ME?! WHAT AM I TO YOU?!" he demanded.

The words made Hermione flinch, but she refrained herself from indicating any sort of emotion on her face. Instead, she took the time to give the blond man a cold glare and disdainful glance from head to toe. "A person," she said dismissively.

"A person you _make love to_," said Draco without a trace of trying to hide his emotions.

"A person I _have sex with_," she corrected him. "And what right do you have in asking me that question when you made it clear just a moment ago that you and I are _just sex_ –"

"BULLSHIT!" exploded Draco, and then came the sharp blow of his fist against the wall at the side of her head. The loud impact made her jump and look at Draco's livid face. His usually-pale face had a pink tinge, his sweaty blond hair fell down to roughly cover his eyes, his chest heaved up and down with his heavy breaths –

"Draco – just –"

"_Don't leave me_."

The words stunned Hermione cold. What she'd been about to say seemed insignificant now, since the words had been uttered. A different set of three words, but three words that conveyed the exact same meaning of the words she wanted to come out of his mouth. If it had been said by anyone else, she would never have given much attention to it. But these three words – these came from Draco. And everyone knew this: Draco Malfoy never begged.

"D-Draco –"

"Stay. With me." Draco screwed his eyes shut.

"I can't –"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?! _PLEASE_? YOU WANT ME TO SAY PLEASE?" He was screaming again, but not because of anger anymore. There was a pleading, desperate undertone to his shouts, desperation that clawed at Hermione's insides. "YOU WANT ME TO GET DOWN ON MY KNEES AND BEG? IS THAT IT, HERMIONE?!"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Draco," put in Hermione timidly, hoping that it would appease him, and mostly, herself. "It's only for tonight –"

Draco took a deep breath through his clenched teeth. "I can't stand seeing you with Weasley in my mind – or anyone else –"

"Shh." Hermione reached up – tentatively, just in case Draco started his violent streaks again – and stroked the underside to his jaw, the place she knew he loved best while she kissed him. "You don't have to think about that."

He obviously relaxed under her caresses, but his entire form still shook with suppressed anger. "I can't help myself," he stuttered, his eyes screwed again.

"You can think about you and I."

The forbidden words – you and I – were uttered with such strange easiness. Forbidden, since 'you' had _his_ already, and 'I' had _hers_ likewise. Forbidden, since in an affair, no matter how happy you are, there can never be a happy ending.

"Is there even such a thing as you and –" said Draco with a bitter laugh. He couldn't find the courage to finish the sentence.

"It's called imagination," replied Hermione, laughing lightly. "Anything can happen. I'll see you tomorrow."

She stood on her tiptoes to give Draco a passionate kiss, one he didn't reciprocate. Hermione pulled away awkwardly, disappointment raining down, and trudged towards the door.

"Hermione," Draco called out in a shaky voice as Hermione prepared to leave the room. He sucked in a huge intake of air before continuing, "Don't have sex with him."

Hermione's smile was grim. "He's my husband, Draco," she said simply, and closed the door.

And as soon as Hermione left, all of Draco's anger was hurled towards the inanimate objects at the room. He didn't care if the landlady threw him out – what he cared about was…

_Was what?! Hermione?! She is fucking with your mind, you son of a bitch, just like she is fucking your body!_

The bed was upturned, the bedside drawer on its side, the lamp damaged. His hand throbbed – the hand he'd used to slam against the wall again, and again, and again… And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd stomped to the bathroom and wreaked havoc in there as well.

He wasn't sure who – or what – he was angry about specifically. Maybe Weasley for interfering. Maybe Granger for leaving.

Maybe he was angry at the reflection that stared him across the mirror – it didn't look like himself at all. So… confused, and guilty. So… angry. So… out of control.

He should've kissed her back. At least he could've had _that_ for himself. But sometimes, anger got in the way of rational thinking.

He slammed his fist into the glassy surface and was immensely pleased when he saw it crack, the jagged lines interweaving, interlocking with each other. The blood trickled down his knuckles and onto the white porcelain of the bathroom sink, tainting its pristine surface.

He glanced back into the mirror and saw his shattered image and the red stain on the middle.

It looked considerably a lot like how he felt he _should_ look.

Dirty. Shattered.

Dirty for feeling something – anything – for a _Mudblood_.

Shattered for accepting it.

* * *

_Dear Mum and Dad,  
Happy anniversary! *hugs and kisses* It feels awful that we don't get to be there to give this to you personally. It's something Hugo and I have been working on all summer (well, really just me, Hugo had really been just a pain in the – oh, well) and we hope you like it! We miss you!  
Love, Rose  
P.S. Scorpius says hi. Really. Isn't he the dreamiest?_

Along with the letter Rosie sent to the Weasley couple was a Singer [*There's such a thing as a _Howler_, right? So a _Singer_ is, like, a letter that sings praises (Duh!) instead of reprimands. Haha! I suck at this inventing thing. *awkward giggle* :P –N] where the couple heard their children's lovely voices, especially Rosie's. Hugo had intercepted with his witty jokes, and Hermione found herself laughing throughout the whole letter. The pain of missing her children had subsided – at least for now – and when the letter finished she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Well, that was… interesting," laughed Ron, whose smile reached his ears. "I wasn't aware of Hugo's talent with _rap_."

Hermione giggled, too. "Likewise! '_Hermione – who didn't care about the money _–'" She laughed loudly again at the lines in her son's song. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed this way. So freely.

"Money's no longer an issue, though, is it?" said Ron in a serious tone, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand awkwardly.

Hermione gave her husband a kind smile. "It's not, Ron. It was never an issue to me."

Ron beamed. "I love you, Hermione."

How she wished she could've heard those words articulated by a different set of lips…

"Let's eat," she said instead, and picked up the fork from the table to taste her home-cooked meal.

Her idea of a wedding anniversary celebration wasn't eating out at fancy restaurants – she preferred an intimate dinner at home and cooked dinner herself. She took the time and patience to do so, the Muggle way of course. She Transfigured their long dinner table to a small, round one, arranged fresh flowers into the crystal vase, lit the candles, and took it all out to the backyard, where the couple could eat under the inky black sky dotted with countless stars, surrounded by the greenery. The fresh autumn night air was an added bonus.

The dinner was light, filled with casual talk and fond memories. They talked about their children. They talked about work. They talked about their friends. They talked about a vacation, possibly next summer. It was _nice_.

She couldn't help but compare things, though. If she'd been with Draco tonight, the word nice would've been, well, _too nice_. Her mouth would've also been busy, but neither with chewing nor with talking.

And the red dress she'd been wearing tonight might've made his eyes _dance_ the way she'd envisioned them to…

As though he'd read her mind, Ron asked, out of the blue, "Can we dance?"

Hermione almost choked on her wine, but, thinking that there was no possible way that Ron could've read her mind, cocked an eyebrow and smiled, disbelieving. "Is Ronald Weasley asking me to dance?" she asked sarcastically.

"I just thought… it would be nice," said Ron, whose face was burning a deep red.

Hermione grinned at the redhead. "Alright."

She took Ron's hand, which was reached across the round table, and let him lead her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and breathed in his perfume – _so different from Draco's_ – as Ron wrapped his arms around her slim waist, and they twirled clumsily around the spot.

"Remember Yule Ball?" Ron breathed into his wife's ear.

Hermione laughed, reminiscing as well. "_Vicky_?" she mocked, remembering her ex-boyfriend, Viktor Krum.

"Not _Vicky_," replied Ron exasperatedly. "Well, maybe a little bit –"

"You were so jealous, Ron," she teased.

"I was not jealous!" he argued lightly. "I wanted to dance with you," he whispered instead, changing the subject, "like this…"

"You could've asked."

"I didn't think you wanted me to dance with you."

"Now that I do recall it, I think my dance card was filled for the night."

"You couldn't save a dance for me?"

"As I've said, you didn't ask."

"I'm asking now, though…"

Ron's moist lips were moving past her ear, lowering themselves to the pulse at the base of her jaw line. Hermione stiffened, knowing what these movements indicated.

Could she do it? Could she betray Draco? Could she ignore his parting words? Could she betray _herself_? She knew she felt nothing for her husband – nothing that was as close as to how Draco always made her feel – but she was his _wife_. It was her duty, her responsibility –

"Hermione," Ron whispered, "I love you. I do love you." And then he kissed her neck passionately, sending a different wave of shivers down her spine.

"Ron." She found herself stammering timidly, pushing at her husband's chest away. "I – we can't. Not tonight."

There was evident disappointment upon her husband's face. "I haven't felt you for the longest time…"

It broke her heart to watch her husband – her greatest love of all – damaged with her rejection. _I'm his wife, after all, and Draco and I –_

"I'm sorry, but it's – it's that time of the month," she lied, before even deciding on saying it.

* * *

"I won't accept less than a hundred Galleons tonight," came the sultry whisper of the brunette that stood next to the bed, looking down upon him.

Draco regarded the girl with stark indifference. He'd gotten his friend, Blaise Zabini, and together they'd gone to Miracle Workers, an illegal business that sold witches and that Draco'd gone to many times during his youth. He'd always thought the place had the name spot-on – the girls did work miracles over his body. Blaise had been blatantly surprised at the suddenness of Draco's action – he thought Draco had changed his previous ways – but the look upon Draco's face told him not to question his friend's decision. Plus, the healing bandage upon the blond wizard's hand indicated that he must've gone through something, and his unwillingness to discuss the matter further zipped his mouth shut ultimately.

So Draco was atop a bed in some other room in some other pub. Madam Larissa had conveniently thrown him out of the room in Owl's Lair after his little outburst, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't care less about a lot of things. He couldn't care less where he was now, and he couldn't care less about this girl.

"I'd give you a _thousand_ Galleons if you could distract me," drawled Draco, still apathetic. He picked up an ice-cold beer bottle from the bedside table, ignoring the sting of his bandaged hand, and took a large swig from it, entirely draining it, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as soon as he'd done. Unsatisfied, he conjured another one.

"A thousand Galleons it is," agreed the girl with a seductive purr. "Sit back and enjoy yourself."

For the first time during the night, Draco willed himself to look closer at the girl. She was petite, bordering on tiny, but the great globes of her breasts and shapely bottom straining underneath the layers of skintight clothing she wore indicated she offered much more than her height. Her blue eyes were a bit too small for her wide cheeks and her lips too thin, but Draco didn't care. His lack of care was even so that he didn't bother knowing her name.

All that mattered was that she had the _same_ golden undertone to her skin. And her brown hair had the _same_ copper highlights.

He needn't look at her face. He could _imagine_…

And so he watched, with disregarding eyes, at the scene playing in front of him. The girl – she looked no more than twenty-five – was giving him a striptease, a move that would've made his younger self drool.

There was no feeling of lust. There was only the feeling of wanting _her_…

"Do you like the package?" said the girl suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

Draco cocked a pale eyebrow. "What package?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," chastised the girl playfully boldly. "The naughty boy isn't paying too much attention, is he?"

_The fuck?!_ "Just do your job," snapped Draco.

She bit her bottom lip suggestively and, after ensuring that the blond man was looking intently at her, kneaded her breasts in the palms of her hands, throwing her head back and groaning as she pleased herself. It got even more so that she dipped her fingers between her thighs and worked on gratifying herself. Draco tried his best to pay attention, but his mind shifted from blindfolded eyes, searing kisses, shattered images…

A loud sigh resonated around the room, and the girl was panting in front of him, her body and eyes glazed.

Why wasn't he feeling what he was _supposed_ to feel between his thighs?

"Did you like that?" breathed the girl, who was regarding him with astonishment.

"You were touching _yourself_," said Draco curtly. "Try touching _me_ this time and ask me that question later."

"Snobby prick," muttered the girl with a slight pout. But she climbed atop the bed, obeying his orders, and took Draco's mouth in hers, her experienced tongue lolling with his. It swirled all around his mouth: his gums, teeth, lip. She was, undoubtedly, the best kisser he'd encountered.

The kiss was so heavy… yet so mundane. So unlike how Granger did it…

But with the image of Hermione Granger came a certain redhead, and that made his whole body tense and rigid.

_Fuck this._

He realized he needed this distraction. Needed this badly.

Blocking out all thoughts and refusing to let them into his mind again, he screwed his eyes shut, threw himself completely into the kiss, and gave in to what the witch tart offered. He let everything consume him – let _her_ consume him. He exaggerated his movements, sucked on the witch's bottom lip, and let his hands roam all over her body – her breasts, her waist, her shapely bottom – until he felt the first signs of dormant lust stirring at the sensitive spot below his navel. He pushed himself inside her wet slit immediately and pumped in and out, faster, faster, grasping at the girl's hips. Unthinkingly.

The brunette threw her head back and voiced her passionate mewls, breaking their kiss.

Draco kept his eyes closed and concentrated on nothing but the lustful heights this girl was bringing him into, concentrated on nothing but the feel of the blood rushing at his groin. Any moment now –

Loud, passionate screams filled the room as the girl spent herself, so loud that Draco could not hear himself think as he finished with her. Could not hear himself whisper…

"The name's Simone," the girl whispered later on as she regained the strength to prop herself up on an elbow and look at Draco with eyes heavy-lidded from the exhaustion of sex.

Draco merely glanced at the girl; he did it more out of courtesy. "Huh?"

"I said, my name's Simone," repeated the girl – _Simone_ – with a louder and clearer voice. "Not _Hermione_."

The mention of that name made him screw his eyes tightly again. "Do I look like I fucking care?" he gritted through his teeth.

"Obviously not," griped Simone in an almost-inaudible voice.

"Then keep your fucking thoughts to yourself."

Simone's beady eyes narrowed. "Every guy I… _sleep with_ laces the word 'fuck' into every sentence. I don't need any reminder of what I have to do for a living –"

"_Fuck_ this," complained Draco, emphasizing the swear word. "I wasn't aware that the night involved my hooker discussing her women's rights."

"It's a shame you're fanciable. You're a prat." Simone shook her head in disappointment. "And you seem very sad." She looked haughtily, unflinchingly at him.

He grimaced at the young girl. "I have a hooker who'd willingly fuck me, so I don't see any reason why I have to be _sad_."

Simone paused, thinking of the best way to word herself. "You wish _you_ didn't have to _fuck me_," the girl stated harshly a while later.

When Draco's stoic expression didn't satisfy her, she went on.

"You wish I were someone else."

_One more –_

"You wish I were _Hermione_."

Draco suddenly grabbed the girl's jaw forcefully with his large hand and glared at her with utter hostility. Just like all the things he didn't care about tonight, he didn't care if he was causing the girl acute pain. Simone's eyes, instead of fear flashing in them, showed just the same level of anger.

"Don't you _fucking dare_ mention her name," threatened Draco, his grip on her tightening.

"Why do you whisper hers?" Simone managed to spit out, despite the fact that Draco's hand seemed more like a vise to her jaws.

_It's the only way I could pretend she's mine…_

Realizing just what exactly he was doing right now – letting Granger get into his head again – he dropped Simone's jaw and scoffed at the pathetic little girl. "I don't give a shit about your unwarranted questions, _slut_."

"People call me 'slut' all the time; it's hardly an insult anymore," said the girl in a bored voice, barking out a bitter laugh.

"I think I've made myself clear that I don't give a damn about what you think."

"And you've got your point across, I'm very well aware of that," retorted Simone sardonically. "However, I think _you_ give a damn about what _you_ think –"

"And what the fucking hell does that mean?" growled Draco.

"You think you love _her_," mocked Simone, drawing out the words. "I could see that."

It was hard to contain the turbulence of the emotions consuming his entirety. How anyone could see that – how anyone could see that he loved her – made him hate himself even more, if that was possible. He was slowly wavering, slowly vacillating; all because of one inconsequential girl he was willing to give his entire soul for. Everything was in shambles; he didn't think he knew who he was anymore. How he could feel this way for another –

"Bollocks," sneered Draco. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Denial was similar to venom in his mouth – he needed it to be sucked on by another not for it to take full effect upon him.

He crushed Simone's lips once more against his, and they were doing it again.

He shouldn't give a shit about anything. He shouldn't give a shit about what he'd pleaded Granger for.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he felt guilty. Guilty for sleeping with another when he'd made it perfectly clear that he didn't want Granger to –

So what, though? It wasn't like she could keep that promise.

He knew what went on in anniversary celebrations, anyway. Eighteen years of being married to Astoria taught him that.

He'd be damned if Granger said she didn't cheat on him by fucking the weasel tonight, too.

* * *

[A/N: I told you updates would be coming regularly now. :D Some love for the quick update? No...? Oh, well. :(

What do you guys think of Simone? (I love her! Hahaha!) And the chapter? Review please! Thank you! :) –Nina]

* * *

**PREVIEW OF NEXT CHAPTER:**

"_H-Hermione –"_

"_Don't say it, Draco," said Hermione in a strained voice, her heart surging with pain as she uttered his name. "Don't you dare apologize."_

_Draco didn't answer immediately. "But I want to," he stated simply. "I don't want you to hate me. I can't stand it –"_

"_THAT'S THE PROBLEM!" Hermione cried out. "I DON'T HATE YOU! I DON'T FUCKING HATE YOU WHEN I SHOULD!"_


	13. Breaking Point

[A/N: Rated M for self-injury, non-consensual sex, and violence.]

CHAPTER 13: Breaking Point

The steam emanating from the hot shower in the master bathroom should've relieved her – made her relatively happy, even – but, predictably, it didn't.

Nothing would make her feel better about herself. Nothing could.

"_Sod off, Astoria."_

She raked her hands over her hair and tugged sharply at the strands, pleased when the stinging sensation of the hair roots tugging at her scalp disturbed her physical well-being and almost made her forget the turbulence that was going on in her mind right now. Her husband – _her sweet, loving, caring husband_ – had shrugged off her advances again. Naturally. She thought she would've already become immune to the pain of rejection, but each lash felt as fresh as the first time she'd received it.

She dug the heels of her hands in her eyes, surprised not to have found it wet at all. She assumed she must've been crying, but the deep well of her tears seemed to have dried out now.

She felt drained.

She peeled her clothes off her body and stepped into the shower, cringing a little bit as the hot water scalded her skin. But she endured the pain. Endured the pain without complaining, as how she so often did. It did no good to complain, anyway. She would never be heard. It would just fall into deaf ears.

For a long while, Astoria just stood there under the stream of warm water falling from the overhead shower. Just stood there, unmoving. Only her eyes blinked as little droplets of water came in contact with them, but other than that, nothing. No movement, no indication that she was still alive and perfectly able to function her limbs. Even her chest didn't seem to heave up and down with her weary breaths.

"AHHHHHHHHH!"

A high-pitched screech, one that chilled your bones, sounded shrilly in the bathroom. Although it appeared not to have come from the witch, there was no other culprit, no other life form that could've conjured that type of noise. Her eyes widened at the suddenness of her action, and her chest heaved and her breath stuttered as she'd finished.

A self-satisfied smile lit up her face when she realized that she'd found solace, an outlet.

"AHHHHHHHHH!" A scream. "AHHHHHHHHHH!" Another. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" One more, the longest and most piercing she'd made.

It made her feel… exhilarated. Letting go of the handlebars of control for the first time. Just like she'd recently orgasmed. Just like a rush of adrenaline, pumping at her veins. Screaming gave her an unnatural high that nothing else had given her so far, and she was doing it again. Luckily she cast the _Muffliato_ charm on the bathroom.

But the high didn't last long, as it often did.

Temporary satisfaction. Like drinking cold water on a sweltering day – when you had too much of it, it made you feel sick and bloated.

She shut her eyes and took a deep, stuttering breath between her teeth. She knew she needed another go, but what could she do? Her chest was constricting with pain again, the ghosts of past rejections coming back and haunting her available mind. She needed to preoccupy herself.

She twisted the shower turn and stepped out of the shower area, carefully minding her footing. Her wet feet were dangerously unbalanced upon the smooth bathroom floor that she knew if she took one wrong step, she would slip. So she took her time, walking towards the porcelain sink tile per tile, her bare feet avoiding the cracks in between.

The image that greeted her as soon as she'd stepped in front of the bathroom mirror looked like a stranger. Her dripping auburn hair fell limply to the sides of her face, and instead of it resembling smooth strawberry syrup, she envisioned an angry, frustrated artist that splattered paint atop her head. Her skin was dull and almost yellowing, as though she was suffering from some sort of disease. Her mouth was turned down into what seemed to be a semi-permanent frown.

That wasn't the worst part, though. The eyes were… disturbing. Were disturbed.

What she'd always liked best about her appearance was her eyes. Contrary to what was popular amongst redheads, instead of her having baby blue eyes, she had dark, raven eyes, like her mother. She liked how they always told stories, how they always seemed to be so deep, so profound…

The depth was still there, although the depth made you feel that it was bottomless, that there was nothing beneath it. There wasn't the tiniest bit of spark, wasn't the tiniest bit of life behind those onyx orbs.

She ground the heels of her hands once more over her eyes, as though the gesture might make the vigor somehow return. She rubbed her hands over her cheeks for good measure, too, so the blood could flow into her face again and make her seem less pale.

When she opened her eyes again, the reflection smiled back for the littlest bit.

The black, waterproof eye makeup became smudged in her eyes from the friction of her hands, and it rolled over and down her cheeks, giving her the impression that she'd just cried a waterfall of black tears.

_Now_ she looked just how she thought she should look like.

She leaned in closer to the glass in an attempt to take a closer look, completely entranced by her reflection. She gripped the bathroom sink for support, but her hand accidentally hit the dish soap by mistake.

She released a tiny gasp as the dish soap – the crystal dish soap – teetered precariously on the edge before coming in contact with the bathroom floor and sounding a resonating crash. Tiny bits of crystal scattered around the tiles, skittering and dancing their way across the room.

Funny, but she saw herself in the soap dish. She _was_ like the soap dish – beautiful, pristine, perfect – it was just that the slightest nudge could break her fragility.

Broken. What you felt being married to someone who didn't love you. Who would never love you.

But the way the crystals skipped across the tiled floor was enviable though. They seemed so… free. So unrestrained.

Bending low, she picked up one of the bigger pieces.

"Ouch."

She almost immediately released her hold on the broken piece as the jagged edge accidentally cut into her palm. She almost didn't heed the pain that made itself known in her mind. Didn't care, actually. Red liquid oozed out from the tiny slit as she examined the cut closely.

Blood.

She applied pressure to the skin surrounding that little wound, and was immensely satisfied when the surge of more red liquid oozed out.

Instinctively, she spread the vile liquid to her face.

Aside from the ominous black waterfall, now there was the splatter of red across her face. She angled her head, looking at the mark she'd made.

She pressed the wound again. And again. And again. She painted the blood on her face.

When the wound clotted, she felt a great wave of disappointment. She needed to finish – she picked up the same broken piece and cut herself again; this time, intentionally.

And once more, she spread the blood to her face.

When she'd finished and was satisfied with her artwork, she regarded that she looked like she had war paint on. Or a mask.

A mask.

How ironic. She didn't need _this_ mask.

During the past years, she felt she'd worn a mask _every single day_.

* * *

_Where are you?  
HG_

Day seven.

Hermione smoothed out the red dress she'd worn to the wedding anniversary with her husband last night and adjusted her pearl earrings, her hands fumbling and legs wobbly. She was procrastinating, she knew that, but she felt she needed all the time since she was apprehensive on meeting Draco because she didn't know what sort of mood he would be in right now. She was, plainly, terrified of what he would do, after seeing his violent reaction last night when she'd tried to tell him that she needed to get away and leave him for her husband. But she convinced herself she didn't need to worry about anything. Ironically, she felt… safe whenever she was in his presence. Safe-_ish_.

Well, that was before his violent outburst.

_I had no choice, _she reasoned out to herself logically. _When he sees me in this dress, he'd forgive me…_

But why was she having trouble trying to convince herself? Maybe it had something to do with the desperateness of his actions last night. He made it very clear that she didn't want her to leave him for Ron.

_Screw it, I'll wing it._

And so she took a deep breath to compose herself, and raised her knuckles to plant three timid knocks upon the polished wooden door.

Draco had responded to her short note by telling her that he would be waiting for her at Room 12-B at the Three Broomsticks. She wasn't fond of the crowded place – wasn't the best place for a covert affair – plus, Madam Rosmerta had a slight resemblance to Rita Skeeter in the gossiping aspect. It had been a constant puzzle to her how that story of one night with Draco Malfoy fifteen years ago never leaked out somehow. Anyway, she'd become more discreet now – she'd pulled a wide-brimmed hat over her eyes (that she'd discarded immediately upon reaching the designated room) and attacked the staircase as soon as she'd entered the pub, careful not to meet anyone else's eyes.

The door opened with a slight crack – by magic, of course; she didn't see Draco anywhere near the door as soon as she entered – and slipped into the room quickly, softly shutting the door behind her.

Draco was atop the pristine, white bed, shirtless, his torso leaning against the wooden headboard. He had his wand on hand and he was twirling it idly, not looking at her, not looking at _anything_. His face wore the stony expression she hated the most. His eyes didn't dance from the image of her wearing the red dress – didn't dance at the sight of her, period. It was dismaying. She'd hoped for their last night – their parting night – to be perfect…

He made no indication that he was going to break the awkward silence, and Hermione decided she'd had enough.

"Er, I'm here," she said boldly, allowing some sarcasm to leak into her tone.

Hermione chewed her tongue and bit back a nasty comment on how pathetic he was acting when he didn't respond to her. So childish. Couldn't he understand that she had her own responsibilities, her own duties to Ron? If it was his and Astoria's anniversary he wouldn't hear any complaining from her – of _course_ she wouldn't be too fond of the idea, but she wouldn't mope the way he was doing now.

She saw Draco's gray eyes inch themselves towards her before simply stating, "Come here," without any hint of either lust or desire.

Hermione, on unsteady legs, approached the bed and awkwardly sat atop it, twisting her torso around to keep him in her line of vision. Her heart thundered against her ears and, call it her intuition or something, was suddenly afraid of what was coming for her, despite the seeming lack of emotion.

Ear-shattering silence enveloped the lovers once more – the only difference was that this time, Draco chose to break it.

"Did you have fun last night?" His tone was smooth, with only the slightest hint of mockery that was laced in it.

"I didn't – I didn't sleep with Ron," stammered Hermione, knowing just what precisely Draco meant by 'fun.'

Something washed over Draco's handsome features, then – something close to dangerous. Chills ran up and down her spine as she gazed into his steely eyes, dark with some unperceivable emotion. Suddenly, he shot her with that terrifying glare, and his mouth turned down into a scowl.

Warning bells rang in Hermione's mind, but she was unable to act upon them for Draco's hand tightly clamped onto her wrist in a notion so blindingly fast that she didn't see it coming. He pulled her brutally against him, pulling her face close to his and looking fiercely into her eyes.

"I said, did you have fun last night?" he repeated in a dark tone, and the whiff of something familiar laced into Hermione's nostrils.

"You're drunk!" she gasped, appalled, and pulled herself away from him as the wretched stench of alcohol filled her lungs.

He gave a disdainful snort. "Huh. Might've downed a drink. Or two. That's not the point here."

"Draco, you're hurting me," pleaded Hermione as Draco's grip on her wrist tightened, pulling her close to him again.

"Are you sure you don't deserve it?" asked Draco in sarcasm, whose grip on her tightened even more that she knew it would leave bruises upon her skin.

Hermione shook her head furiously and tried to pry his hand off her wrist with her free hand, but the attempt was futile. Her breaths rasped loudly and tumbled out of her mouth in huge gasps with panic, but all she could do was nothing but remain weak and vulnerable. Draco, physically, was just too strong for her –

Viciously, Draco grabbed onto Hermione's jaw and squeezed it until a strangled cry came from the latter's lips.

"I repeat, did you have fun last night?" was Draco's sinister whisper.

"I – _didn't_ – sleep with Ron," choked out Hermione, pleading for him to believe her. Her tears were threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes.

"_Bullshit_," spat out Draco, and dropped her jaw. But the force of his next move stopped her beating heart.

His hand came in contact with her cheek with a slap so loud that the sound resonated around the room. Her head rolled dangerously to the side, whipping her long hair across her sweaty face and the strands clinging onto the wetness. The impact was so painful, so spot-on, that she almost instantly felt the throbbing of her cheek.

The hand that was not ensnared with his grip she used to instinctively clutch at her beaten flesh. She looked at Draco with bewilderment, surprised that he would – that he _could_ – actually hurt her.

This harsh man was not _her_ Draco – there was no concern, no affection behind those ruthless dark eyes of his…

Draco seemed to thrive on Hermione's strangled cries – for whenever one issued forth from her lips, another smarting slap came from him. And another, and another –

"I didn't sleep with Ron," Hermione choked out like a mantra, over and over, as he slapped her continuously. The tears were freely flowing from her eyes now. "I didn't sleep with Ron. I didn't sleep with Ron –"

"Do you know what the fuck I hate the most? I HATE LIARS," roared Draco, answering his own question harshly. "I – " _slap_! " – just – " _slap_! " – fucking – " _slap_! " – _HATE_ – " _SLAP_! "LIARS!"

He slapped her on the left cheek, she noticed. Always, always the left cheek…

"I'm not lying," cried out Hermione. "Stop it!" She tried pushing him away, but his hand still clamped on tightly to her wrist. In her hazy vision, she noticed that the blood flow to her hand had completely been cut off; her hand was paler than the rest of her body.

Draco ceased his assault on her cheek, using that hand to grab around her waist and pull her closer to his body so they were chest to chest. The position did not make Hermione feel any better – if anything, she was more scared because she knew something worse was coming for her…

"Did you teach Weasley the tricks you learned from me? Bet he enjoyed himself, didn't he?" mocked Draco forebodingly.

"I didn't – I didn't sleep with him." Hermione's throat felt raw from the crying and from repeating the same words over and over. Why wouldn't he listen to her? She felt weary from the physical and the emotional pain.

"We both know you're lying, Granger," barked out Draco. "Tell me what you two did in bed last night."

When Hermione didn't answer him – she was too exhausted to put up with his thick skull – Draco gripped the tops of her arms tightly in his large hands. Another sob, a weary one, emerged from Hermione's mouth.

"WHAT, GRANGER?!" Draco shook her violently. "WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO?!"

Hermione feebly pushed at Draco's chest, but the fatigue was too much that she barely put up a decent fight. "I didn't –"

"Did he kiss you like this?!" he demanded, and before she could say no he crushed her lips to his in a kiss so bruising it didn't feel like a pair of lips at all but steel wool, brutally rubbing against her lips. His teeth bit harshly at her lower lip, the gesture so unlike how he often kissed her before –

"Draco," she protested wildly, with an attempt to push him away. "Stop it –"

He swallowed her protests away by squeezing her arms tighter and by pushing his tongue into her mouth, and eventually pushing her atop the bed beneath him. He gripped at the wide shoulder straps of her dress and pulled at it, ripping the dress from her body easily. Regaining some of her strength back, Hermione pummeled his chest with her fists, but she could've been pummeling at stone for all she knew because her efforts to shove him off did not affect him in the slightest bit. She heard the stiff fabric of her dress rip, rip, rip itself from her body and, as if that wasn't enough, he ripped her bra and panties off of her, too.

And then his hands were exploring every inch of her body in a way that did not make her feel the slightest bit aroused. On the contrary, she felt abused and dirty. As though she felt her rights to her own body being stripped away with every touch of his fingers. He released her mouth to suck on the sensitive skin on her neck with just enough pressure not to draw blood from it, and Hermione whimpered.

"And I suppose Weasley felt this last night," Draco harshly mumbled at the skin of her neck as he massaged her breasts in his rough hands, "and this –" He slipped his fingers between her thighs and invaded her most private area, a guttural groan surfacing from between his teeth when he felt her soft femininity.

Hermione's poor, confused body reacted to these touches, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she had never hated Draco Malfoy as much as she hated him now. Still, she knew there was nothing she could do. Fighting him would be futile, and would only break her heart even more…

Unfeeling, she let herself become limp in Draco's arms as he touched her, not even bothering to try to stop him – just waited for him to finish. She imagined she were someone else, somewhere else…

She almost wasn't aware that Draco had pulled himself off her to unbutton his trousers, nor was she aware when he'd lowered himself into her again and forced his engorged manhood inside of her. She didn't care when he bucked atop her, but she was a woman, and her body pitifully could not restrain itself from unraveling underneath him.

She kept her eyes shut as she tumbled back down to earth, her orgasm all but done. Still, closing her eyes did not necessarily block out the feeling of Draco moving himself in and out of her, nor the feeling of his warm and wet lips moving all over her face – her shut eyelids, her cheeks, her temples, her lips, her neck. And when her lips were at her ear he sounded a desperate, yet unexpected, plea.

"You are mine, Hermione."

She felt his entire body quiver as he prepared to release himself. Another pump.

"You are mine…"

She felt his hot spasms spill inside her, and, stupidly, she opened her eyes, wanting to witness the satisfied look she knew would completely take over his face. She wanted to see him that way so the images of his bestial ways could somehow, although in the slightest bit, be wiped from her mind. She wanted to see his untroubled, peaceful eyes –

What she witnessed instead was a tear escaping _his_ shut eyes, and spilled itself down onto her cheek.

"Only mine…"

And then they both tumbled into the loving, secure arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

When Hermione awoke later on, deep into the night, she forced herself to keep her swollen eyelids shut.

She didn't have the dazed, disoriented feeling of some people who'd just been raped. Quite the reverse, she remembered everything that had happened to her last night, or rather, just a few measly hours ago. She remembered Draco squeezing her wrists, she remembered Draco ripping her clothes from her, she remembered Draco forcing himself inside of her. She remembered Draco and the teardrop.

But mostly, she remembered Draco and his shameless, brutal handling of her.

Although she forced herself to say that it was _his_ entire fault, she couldn't help but blame herself, too. She blamed herself for allowing herself to sleep with him, she blamed herself for agreeing to his sick proposal, she blamed herself for sleeping with him fifteen years ago and for possibly fathering Rosie, she blamed herself for disrespecting her husband.

But mostly again, she blamed herself for trusting him.

Betrayal ate at your insides… just like love.

_*Sometimes, love makes you feel… out of control. Like it's eating away at you. Until there's nothing left._

Just like how Draco treated his own wife, Hermione knew she meant nothing to him. A quick shag and go. _"Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am."_

But what was all the jealousy, the –

She needed to stop overanalyzing things. It was pointless. What she thought she meant to him was completely eliminated by the way he'd treated her last night: worse than trash. Worse than the mud you stepped over.

In retrospect, she felt certain she knew where the entire 'Mudblood' thing came from.

Just when she thought Draco might have an inkling of affection for her, there he left her again: disappointed. She clutched her arms to her bare chest and released silent tears, the wetness falling over the bridge of her nose, down to her temples, and onto the pillow. The pillow was still damp, and she didn't know whether the wetness meant she'd cried continuously as she'd slept or if this was the remnant of her tears while Draco'd abused her. She decided she didn't care. It was all the same.

He treated her no differently than all the other girls he'd slept with. That was the entire fact.

So why was her heart painfully tearing itself away from her chest that she could feel the physical effect of it?

_Don't say it. Don't even _think_ it. Admitting it to yourself will only make it that much harder… and much more real._

And so she didn't answer her own question, despite the fact that she knew the answer already.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, blinking a few times when she found her vision blurry. There was the dark outline of Draco lying on the bed next to her, silhouetted by the moon, and that brought on a fresh round of tears. Unintentionally, a sob escaped her mouth and she clamped it shut tightly, not wanting to wake him.

Draco inclined his head to look at her, and she realized that he had been awake the whole time.

The whole of his face was illuminated by the moon, except for his eyes, which were hidden in shadows. She rolled onto her back so she wouldn't have to look at him, so he wouldn't have to see her cheeks burn with hatred and humiliation. But what was she humiliated for, anyway? It wasn't like it was her fault. She didn't do anything. He should be the one ashamed of his prior action.

"_Incendio_," she heard Draco mutter, and the dark room suddenly glowed orange from the oil lamp he'd just lit.

The room was basked with strange and ominous shadows from the fire that flickered inside the lamp, but the silence between them stretched on. There were no words to utter, no words that could sum up for what she felt right now.

Draco had the gall to reach out and touch her cheek – her left cheek. The cheek which he'd abused, which he'd slapped over and over…

Hermione forcefully slapped his hand away, tears freely flowing down her temples. So what if he saw her cry? She didn't care, just like how _he_ didn't care.

"H-Hermione –"

"Don't say it, Draco," said Hermione in a strained voice, her heart surging with pain as she uttered his name. "Don't you _dare_ apologize."

Draco didn't answer immediately. "But I want to," he stated simply.

"God, Draco," she choked out. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, to feel more relief or pain that he was repentant and contrite for what he'd done. "You fuck me, you hurt me, and then you rape me. For which mistake are you apologizing for?"

"For what reason are _you_ making this so difficult?!" exclaimed Draco in disbelief. "Don't you think seeing you _this_ way isn't causing me enough pain as it is?"

Hermione barked out a harsh laugh. "_Seeing me this way_," she echoed him bitterly. "Why, don't you remember how I got to be _this_ way?"

Desperately, Draco whispered, "I don't want you to hate me. I can't stand it –"

"THAT'S THE PROBLEM!" Hermione cried out. "I DON'T HATE YOU! I DON'T FUCKING HATE YOU WHEN I _SHOULD_!"

The entire world seemed to have stopped with Hermione's confession. Time, substance, and matter seemed immobile. Screwing his eyes shut, Draco sucked in a huge breath and clenched and unclenched his jaw, not knowing what to say.

Hermione gave a sudden mirthless laugh. "I should've known. I should've known that you'd have _nothing_ to say," she said bitterly. She twisted her head and casually looked at Draco, as though the words that tumbled out of her mouth remained unspoken. "Tell me. How bad do I look?"

Draco turned his head to glance at the witch and took a long, lingering stare, his gaze prolonging at the cut on her left cheek, the one he'd tried to caress moments ago if only she hadn't slapped his hand away.

He felt awful, the most awful he'd felt in a long time.

"It's not so bad."

She gave another disbelieving laugh. "Are you appeasing me, or yourself?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know," he finally admitted in a small voice.

Hermione sighed wearily, all traces of animosity dissolved after her short outburst. She realized she didn't know how to _fully_ hate Draco – that although she did hate him, there was still that little part of her that said otherwise –

"At least something good resulted in last night," whispered Draco. When Hermione looked as puzzled as ever, he answered her unspoken question. "I made you stay for the night."

Hermione laughed hollowly, unsure as what to say to that.

"What do you think this is?" whispered Draco later on, after a much-prolonged stretch of silence.

"What is?" Hermione whispered back.

"This." Draco reached across the distance between them and tentatively stroked the back of her hand, grasping it when she didn't pull away from him. "I thought we were just sex. You said we were just sex –"

"But we are."

"Then what is this?"

Despondently, Hermione whispered, "I don't know."

It was the first time Hermione Granger failed to answer any question, and not because she didn't know the answer. She _shouldn't_ know the answer, shouldn't articulate it for fear that it might become more real once uttered. But she knew it – they both knew it – only neither of them admitted it.

Draco dropped her hand and let his fingertips travel up her arm, and Hermione shivered as his fingertips left a trail of goosebumps. She didn't push him away, but she should have. It was just that the subtle movement of his fingertips led her to believe that it had not been he who'd hurt her moments ago, but another. His graze traveled up the side of her neck and to her cheek, her much-abused left cheek.

He turned her face to his and bent his head to plant a chaste kiss on that cheek. So gesture was so gentle, it didn't seem like Draco's at all. He pecked another at the corner of her mouth, before completely landing his lips upon hers, almost hesitantly.

A feather-light kiss. A barely-there kiss. A soft, timid kiss. But, just like all of Draco's kisses, it made Hermione's head swim dangerously.

Mutual understanding led her to believe that it was an apologetic kiss…

Hermione basked in that sweet kiss, returning it just as gently as he gave it. All of Draco's soul seemed to pour out in that little kiss, and it was all Hermione could do not to keep herself from drowning in it. Something wet and warm was washing over her cheek, and Hermione realized that not only was Draco's soul pouring out, but also his tears.

He was stroking her left cheek, then, stroking it with the backs of his fingers in a manner so gentle it felt like satin over skin.

So ironic that although he'd been the one to inflict the damage upon her cheek, his fingers also had the antidote to somewhat dull the throbbing ache.

On her cheek, that is.

Her heart was beyond repair, beyond throbbing aches.

* * *

Seven days always, always seem shorter when relatively compared to a _week_.

Hermione cussed at the reflection that greeted her as soon as she stepped in front of the mirror in the hallway. The gash on her cheek looked so… raw. So fresh.

She gripped her wand in her hand and recited Healing Spells, so when she finished, the slash was nothing more than a faded, pale pink line. She would have this scar forever, she thought as she moved away from the mirror.

The DNA test results were arriving today, and Hermione didn't know whether to feel relieved or anxious of that. Still, she waited at the sitting room, her fingertips drumming against the jeans-enclosed skin of her knee.

She was at her parents' house, but both her parents were abroad. Her Grandmother Jean had fallen ill, and her parents had taken it upon themselves to take care of her. Muggles weren't supposed to know about Godric's Hollow, anyway, so she'd indicated as she sent the results that she lived here.

She took a deep breath to compose her raging thoughts. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. That was how nervous she was.

She glanced once more at the clock hanging atop the mantelpiece. Didn't the mail arrive at seven a.m. on the dot?

As though it answered her private question, the soft click of the mail slot sounded.

Hermione bounded off the cushioned seat and attacked the doormat where the mail had landed. Just one thing lay there.

Her long-awaited DNA results.

Not bothering to obtain the letter-opener, she ripped off the brown envelope with the word CONFIDENTIAL written in bold letters at the back.

She didn't bother looking at the long chart that broke down how they compared the DNA samples to each other. It didn't matter to her. What mattered was what was indicated at the very top.

_Weasley, Rose… Malfoy, Draco…_

_Probability percentage…_

_Zero._

Zero…

Hermione's vision seemed to blur with relief and she dropped to her knees down onto the floor, her legs wobbly.

Now that the fear of the uncertainty of who fathered Rosie was out of the way, things could finally get back to normal now. Back to how things have been. Back to how things _should_ be.

There would be no more lies, no more deceptions.

Hermione pitied herself for lying to her own self, though.

Things could _appear_ to be back to normal, but she knew she would never be.

* * *

*Text belongs to _The Vampire Diaries_. (I loved the line so much that I had to put it here, haha! :D)

[A/N: I kind of procrastinated a little bit in posting this chapter, mainly because I am so anxious on how you guys will accept it. :/ I am so sorry if I offended/disappointed some people, but the rape scene had to happen! So... sniff. I'm kind of expecting flames for this chapter. :(

On another note, **Of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey** is almost finished; only 3 main chapters left and a 4-part epilogue (so, all in all, this fic has 20 chapters). Thanks to those who've read, favorited, followed, and most especially to those who've reviewed (you know who you are! :D) despite me being a terrible, terrible author most of the time.

PLEASE lend me your thoughts on this chappie. No matter how vile it is, I can take it. :) Review please! And thanks for your patience in reading this long chapter. :) –Nina]

* * *

**PREVIEW OF NEXT CHAPTER:**

_And then Draco was kissing her again, his kiss more full of sorrow than anything else. Hermione had never seen him so sad – didn't think he was capable of sadness at all – but her opinions on him were washed away with every light brush of his lips._

_But a voice in the back of her mind begged itself to be taken notice of._

"_No, please stop, Draco," pleaded Hermione as she pushed him away once more. "This might feel good, but it doesn't feel right. Didn't we swear we'd forget everything that happened between us two months ago? Think about your son, Scorpius! What would he say about seeing his father in the hands of another woman? And your wife, Astoria – we're hurting her, Draco, and if you think –"_

"_Astoria." Draco spit his wife's name out as though it were a curse. "Do you know how the fuck Astoria came to be in my life?" For some reason, the sorrow was gone from the tone of his voice, replaced by a strong feeling of ill-will._


	14. Vulnerable

CHAPTER 14: Vulnerable

Two months. Two fucking months.

Draco glared at the scrap piece of parchment in his hand, wrinkled from the many times he'd crumpled and un-crumpled it. The first time he'd received the note, he'd chucked it furiously into the wastebasket – but he found himself redeeming it afterwards.

_The results have come. She's not yours._

To anyone else, the hollow words would've seemed irrelevant, insignificant. The note wasn't even signed.

But to him, it meant everything.

Rose Weasley was not his daughter, was not a Malfoy. And because of that, there was no reason for him to hurt his little Scorpius anymore. There was no reason for his family to break up. There was no reason for him to shame the untarnished Malfoy name. He should feel relieved, unburdened, but he felt otherwise. He felt – he didn't know what.

But those three words at the end of the note; they meant more to him than what was implied.

_She's not yours._

To be honest, he wanted the test results to state positive. He wanted the fucking Weasley spawn to be his. Why? To have some concrete and valid claim on the girl's mother. He didn't care about Weasley himself; he didn't care about Astoria. He didn't care about people he might offend. He didn't care about anything at all, period. He was that selfish.

But he knew Granger would never allow it. To prove her point, she'd stopped seeing him. She kept her end of the bargain. They were not to see each other anymore after the test results arrived, weren't they? She'd never responded to any of his owls, either, and although he wanted to keep on sending them, he knew it would've been pointless and pathetic.

There was another stipulation to the agreement, and that was the Memory Charm.

"_We're going to have to Obliviate –"_

"_I know what you're doing, Granger," he'd cut her off angrily. "I can bloody hell see it in your eyes."_

_She'd blushed furiously. "I don't – I don't know what you're –"_

"_You'll Obliviate my memories first and then not Obliviate _yours_!" he'd argued hotly. "I can see your mind working from here –"_

"_I wasn't –"_

"_Bollocks, Granger –"_

_Her tone had been impassive, matter-of-fact. "It'll be more convenient for the both of us –"_

"_And you think it's fair that I forgot about you?! You think –"_

"_Yes!" she'd cut him off, and was then shouting, too. "Yes, it's better! Because you know what, Draco? I don't want to forget things! I don't want to forget that you, at least, are not the same cocky prick I once knew –"_

"_You want to remember things?!" he'd countered, disbelieving. "You'd want to remember that I raped you?" He was broaching on a sensitive subject, but he couldn't help himself. He needed something, a leverage._

"_I – I –"_

"_Hermione." He'd sighed wearily, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion. "I don't want to forget, too." He'd wanted to add _you_, but caught himself just in time._

"_But – but that was the agreement –"_

_He'd laughed mirthlessly. "I don't think we've actually held on to what we've agreed on doing in the first place."_

In retrospect, he wished he'd let her Obliviate his memories, because she'd been right all along. It _was_ more convenient. He didn't like the feeling of pining for someone, for yearning for someone, to the point of being metaphorically crippled. But he was not taking anything back.

He wanted her. Fact. He wanted her bad.

_She's not yours._

The note seemed to mock him.

Angrily, he crumpled the note in his large hand and threw it across the room, ricocheting off his office's wall. It had been the fate of the poor note in Draco's hands: crumpled and thrown, and then redeemed and smoothed over. With his chest heaving up and down with his weary breaths, he leaned his elbows onto the oak table and took his head into his hands, screwing his eyes shut.

What hurt him most about everything is the fact that he never got the chance to fully apologize for what he'd done to her on their last night together. He'd hurt her, hurt her too deeply, and there was nothing he could do to take back his actions. He let his rage and jealousy take control over his doings, and as a result he knew she hated him. Would always do, now that he knew Granger well enough. Despite what she'd told him, her cold demeanor towards him as they'd woken up together the following morning proved that she was, once again, not letting her real emotions take control.

And speaking of real emotions, he was finding it harder and harder to pretend to like Astoria these days.

Probably because now he knew how it felt like to truly want someone.

His wife had changed in the past few weeks, and for what reason these changes might have brought on, he did not know. Although he'd never paid too much attention to her at all, these changes were drastic enough that even _he_ noticed. Astoria was a woman who took great pride in how she looked, that was why he had never been afraid of showing off his trophy wife even though he didn't have feelings for her. It was all a show, anyway. But suddenly, she seemed not to care in the slightest bit on how she looked. She would wear the same garment for days and days, and wouldn't notice if it was stained or wrinkled. She'd stopped brushing her hair, too, that was why it lost its luster and sheen.

Before, Astoria would've been up in the early hours of the morning, instructing the house-elves on what to do to make the manor more perfect than it already was. She would have the plush velvet curtains of the large, wide windows drawn, and would scold the elves if she saw dust particles floating in the sunlight. The Malfoy manor benefited from her perfectionist ways.

The manor was cold and dreary, and very, very dark now.

But of course, it still didn't matter to Draco. He figured she might've gotten bored with the monotony of her life. He couldn't imagine any other job that could make hers a lot more interesting.

And then there were the cuts and scratches on her pallid arm.

The first time Draco saw one of them, he assumed she possibly could have gotten it while she was helping Meriam with the cooking. She might've accidentally cut herself with a knife or something, and so he didn't feel the slightest bit alarmed.

But the cuts seemed to multiply with his rejection every time she sauntered up to him in bed… and that was every night. Come to think of it, he allowed her only once, twice into his bed. Thrice at most.

A strange, ominous smile was also upon his wife's lips –

He shook his head. Astoria wasn't his problem. Astoria was mainly a person forced upon him.

His problem was Hermione.

At least, he _made_ her his problem. Though she made it very clear she didn't want to be his…

_Fuck._

* * *

"Is something wrong, Hermione?"

Hermione looked up abruptly from the mug of coffee in her cupped hands. She wasn't really drinking it, just merely pondering it. She'd been pondering it for too long that the steam that emanated from it previously had gone; the coffee had gone cold now.

She cleared her throat and forced to smile at the redhead. "Nothing, Ginny. I'm fine." She took a sip of the beverage and immediately regretted it. The coffee was cold and very bitter.

_Cold and bitter… just like him._

Ginny looked skeptical. "Are you sure? You've been acting… strange."

"It's nothing." She grinned widely at her friend.

But Ginny didn't say anything, and continued on scrutinizing her odd behavior.

Truth be told, despite what she'd done over the past few days – weeks – months, even – she found a rather significant part of herself missing Draco. Missed him terribly to the point that the dreary winter morning sky resembled his gray eyes, missed him terribly that she'd imagined him in Ron's place as he made love to her, missed him terribly to the point of wishing that she would wake up right next to him. The time apart had not helped her in any way, as she hoped it would.

But being back in the humdrum of life and reality, it seemed to her that what had happened between the two of them had been a distant dream, something someone else had experienced and lived through.

But that didn't curb the cravings, the feeling of passionate longing in her veins. And despite what he'd done to her...

On the contrary, and so ironically, the passion strengthened even more…

Hermione gulped nervously, but tried her best not to make the discomfort evident upon her features. "So, how is Lily?" she asked, in an attempt to change the subject. "Last I heard she was sick."

"Yeah, she was down with the flu a few days ago, but Harry and I took her to St. Mungo's and she's better now," said Ginny. "Wasn't anything serious, but you know how Harry gets."

"I'm glad she's better." Hermione tried to make her tone livelier.

"But I know you're not," said Ginny simply.

Hermione gave a short laugh, one that sounded unnatural, even to her. "What do you mean?"

"Hermione." Ginny sighed wearily. "I've known you for too long for you to have to lie to me."

Hermione twisted the mug in her hands. "I'm not lying to anybody –"

"Hermione," the redhead repeated, but this time her tone was firmer, as though she was not dropping the subject unless she told her the truth. "What is wrong?"

Hermione didn't look at her friend's face, but instead looked out of the solitary kitchen window of the Potters' home. She couldn't tell anyone her deepest feelings, but she wished she could. She wished she could have another opinion on things, one that wasn't biased. But Ginny was her husband's sister. And anyway, what did she need another opinion for? She'd already done what she thought was right, wasn't she? She'd kept Draco away from her life, and her family.

Even though it broke her heart to do it.

"Nothing is wrong," she insisted. "I am fine –"

Again, Ginny sighed wearily. "Ron talks to Harry," she suddenly said. "All the time."

"Yeah. So?"

"And Harry talks to me."

Hermione cocked her head impatiently towards her friend. "And what exactly are you getting at?" she asked, although she knew the exact answer already.

"All I'm saying is that –"

"No!" snapped Hermione, and for some reason her temper flared. "Just why exactly is Ron talking to Harry instead of me?! If he has any problems concerning me then it would be much better if we'd discussed them together, isn't it, not run around town conferring our marital problems with every Tom, Dick, and Harry he meets!"

"That's exactly the problem, Hermione!" Ginny argued hotly. "Ron _doesn't_ know what the problem is!"

Her words stopped Hermione.

"How can he ask you about it when he doesn't even know _what_ to ask of you?"

"Then that makes everything between us _fine_, doesn't it?" snapped Hermione irritably. "If he can't pinpoint any problem then there _is_ no problem! He's just making a big deal out of nothing! Sheesh!" She threw her hands up in defeat.

Despondent, Ginny shook her head. "Do you still love my brother or not?"

Hermione barked out a hollow laugh. "What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Just answer it, for Merlin's sake!"

Hermione pushed herself off of the wooden table and got to her feet irately. "You know what, Ginny? I think I've had enough coffee. It was nice seeing you."

Ginny got to her feet, too. "Hermione –"

But Hermione was already getting her purse from the kitchen counter and preparing to leave the kitchen door.

She didn't need this argument. She was already feeling guilty as hell. She didn't need anyone else pinpointing it out for her…

As she was about to leave her best friend's home, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Bending low, she picked up today's edition of the _Daily Prophet_ from the sitting room table. The paper had been folded in such a way that the Obituaries section was face-up.

The featured person had a condescending look upon her face –

"Yeah. She's dead," said Ginny, whom Hermione hadn't noticed had followed her to the sitting room.

Hermione couldn't keep her eyes off of the paper. There was an aching feeling in her gut, one she knew wouldn't have been present if only –

"Not much loss to our world, isn't she?" said Ginny disdainfully. "Merlin knows we don't need someone like her."

Hermione didn't dignify her friend's statement with a reply.

_Maybe not to _our_ world_, she thought with pity, _but to his_…

* * *

That evening, Hermione was found drumming her fingers on her Volvo's steering wheel and trying to make out the faces of the people passing by her car. They almost looked like one another; there was no sufficient light that could makes their faces distinguishable. They had their hands in their pockets and their collars up their chins to shield themselves from the unrelenting cold climate.

Hermione glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard for probably the hundredth time that night, both anxious and apprehensive at the same time. _Maybe this isn't such a good idea_, she thought to herself again, but the difference was that this time, she found herself acting upon that thought.

The revved the car's engine and was just about to move from the parking spot when a halo of silver blond hair caught the moonlight and eventually, her attention.

Her heart automatically thundered in her ribcage as the tall figure of Draco Malfoy staggered towards her car. Despite her mind screaming at her to make a run from her rapist, her entire body was frozen and unmoving in the driver's seat, wanting to see him. After all, they'd made an arrangement to talk that night and she wanted to keep her promise.

Draco pulled the passenger door open and climbed into the seat in shaky movements. Hermione caught a whiff of his familiar scent, his scent which she'd grown accustomed to.

For a long moment, neither one of them said anything. Hermione refrained to look at the Slytherin, but found herself aware of his every movement. She was aware when he shifted slightly in his seat, and even when his broad chest heaved as he took unsteady breaths. It was pitiable that she still found herself caring for the man even after what he'd done, but she could not help herself.

At long last, Draco broke the palpable silence. "Hermione," he whispered, his voice unsteady. "I'm glad you agreed to meet me."

"Yes." Her reply was barely more than a whisper.

"Have you seen the… paper?"

"Yes."

"Mother's dead," he murmured after a slight pause.

"Yes." She felt stupid for having nothing else to say but _yes_, but what else was there to say?

She heard Draco's choked sob, and it was all she could do not to look at him. A single tear slid from the corner of his shut eyes. For a moment, he resembled a forlorn, little boy who'd lost his mother.

"Death is inevitable, Draco –"

Draco laughed mirthlessly, his eyes still tearing, and turned his head around to look at her. "I knew you'd say something like that. Something practical." He took a deep breath. "Yeah." He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Same old Granger."

"It's how life is –"

But Draco leaned across the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers, cutting off her words and stifling her soft gasp with his mouth. She certainly hadn't expected this. His lips were wet and salty, due to his tears which flowed freely down his cheeks now. For a fleeting moment, Hermione considered returning his kiss, but caught herself just in time.

She pushed firmly at his chest. "Draco, stop! We can't do this," she told him.

"Why not?" he inquired, but he looked too fragile to keep up with the argument.

"Your mother just died."

"Yes, she did, but how does that change anything about you and I?"

Draco was about to kiss her again, but she kept her arms firmly planted on his chest. "That's the point! It doesn't!"

"So help me, Hermione," pleaded Draco desperately. "This – seeing you – makes me forget about the whole ordeal, the fact that there is no one left whom I love… and who loves me back –"

"That's only because vulnerable moments like these often result in bad decisions."

Draco laughed, mirthless. "Bad or not, it's still _my_ decision."

And then Draco was kissing her again, his kiss more full of sorrow than anything else. Hermione had never seen him so sad – didn't think he was capable of sadness at all – but her opinions on him were washed away with every light brush of his lips.

But a voice in the back of her mind begged itself to be taken notice of.

"No, please stop, Draco," pleaded Hermione as she pushed him away once more. "This might feel good, but it doesn't feel _right_. Didn't we swear we'd forget everything that happened between us two months ago? Think about your son, Scorpius! What would he say about seeing his father in the hands of another woman? And your wife, Astoria – we're hurting her, Draco, and if you think –"

"_Astoria_." Draco spit out his wife's name as though it were a curse. "Do you know how the _fuck_ Astoria came to be in my life?" For some reason, the sorrow was gone from the tone of his voice, replaced by a strong feeling of ill-will.

Hermione bit her bottom lip nervously. "It – it's none of my business –"

"I was engaged to a Greengrass before I could walk," he spit out. "Before I could even talk! _Fixed marriage_, Granger! Fucking fixed!"

Despite the information being new, Hermione showed no sign that the revelation surprised her. After all, it was predictable, if one thought of it logically. Greengrasses and Malfoys were amongst the oldest lines of pureblood wizarding families.

Draco went on. "That was fine with me; I knew it had to happen. You know what happens when pureblood families decide they want to keep the bloodlines untainted. But you know what the worst part is?" He paused. "The worst part is the feeling of having no control over things, the feeling that you can't do anything about the situation hanging over your head – it's like I'm being forced to kill Dumbledore all over again! Forced to do the Dark Lord's bidding! All against my will!"

And there she saw Draco's wall slowly crumbling to down to the ground: that despite what he'd made himself appear to be, the trauma of his past still weighed heavily upon his shoulders, even after years of healing.

Suddenly, with a burst of understanding, Hermione remembered the _Incarcerous_ incident, the one that resulted in their biggest fight in the whole covert arrangement. _The worst part is having no control over things…_

"It's over, Draco," appeased Hermione in a soothing voice. "Voldemort's dead."

"I wanted to make my own choices, for once. I didn't want to marry someone I didn't love, just like I didn't want to kill Dumbledore."

Hermione reached a hand out tentatively to soothe his heaving chest. "Shh…"

"And now, Mother's dead." His voice cracked. "Did you know that she was the only one who was ever opposed to my becoming a Death Eater? She implored my father, begged him not to do it – but of course, Father ignored her pleas."

"I didn't think you would allow yourself to become one, too," Hermione revealed in a small voice. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Draco fumbled at the small button on his wrist and, after successfully managing to unbutton it, pulled his shirt sleeve up to his elbow to reveal the scar upon his left forearm.

"The scar. It's still here. Proof that it was branded to me against my own will. My father – his Mark disappeared as soon as the Dark Lord departed." His finger hovered over the scar in the shape of a serpent-tongued ghastly skull before tentatively brushing the pad of his forefinger upon it. "It's the worst, and ironically the best thing I like about myself. It proves that I am so much more than my father's son. I am able to say no, I am able to make my own decisions, I am able to distinguish what is right from wrong. I am able to look past fortune, fame, power – even though I had been too late in realizing it."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. "Harry and I used to argue about this a lot, about my having faith in you. Because I didn't think you had it in you to kill anybody. You might've been an incorrigible prick, but that was all you were: nasty. You're not a killer. I always knew that."

"And I hated you," said Draco frankly.

"That's nothing new."

"No. I really did hate you, you and those five nutters you called friends. If it weren't for you, if it weren't for your interference in the Ministry of Magic in our fifth year, Father would never have failed in retrieving the Prophecy. And he wouldn't feel the sick need to make amends for himself." Draco took a deep breath through his clenched teeth. "He wouldn't feel the sick need to be a – a _pushover_ and to – _TO SELL OUT HIS OWN SON TO REDEEM HIMSELF_!"

The words crashed into Hermione's ears like the loud roar of a nearby waterfall. She'd always thought of Draco as someone who idolized his father, who wanted to become just like him; she didn't realize the scar his father had embedded into his being as he molded him was grave.

"But I don't hate Father." Draco quickly defended him, his voice lowering. "I just – I don't want to be like him. I don't want Scorpius thinking of me that way, thinking that I loved myself more than I loved him…"

"That makes you two different." Hermione smiled at him. "You love Scorpius." She paused to lower her head. "If only you could find it in your heart to try and love his mother as much as you love him."

Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "What makes you think I don't _try_?" he retorted. "Mother always told me that I'd eventually learn to love Astoria as we spent more time together – why haven't I reached the point of doing so, even after having been married to her for eighteen years?"

"Maybe," shrugged Hermione, "you're just not trying hard enough. Maybe you're just too full of spite as to how she came in your life that you fail to see Astoria herself. Maybe."

"Or maybe I'm just not destined to be with her at all."

Hermione's mouth threatened to turn up into an amused smirk. "That's so cliché. Draco Malfoy, believe in destiny?"

Draco scowled at her delight. "I like to think I'm destined to be happy."

"But there's no such thing as destiny, Draco! Only different choices," Hermione pointed out. "You said it yourself. _You_ wanted to make your own choices. Dumbledore might've helped you at some point, but you _chose_ not to be a cold-blooded killer. You could've killed him then, not thought about the consequences it might've entailed, but you _chose_ not to do it."

"Still as practical as ever," smirked Draco. "Since we're on the subject of _choosing_, care to answer a few questions for me?"

Hermione blinked, puzzled. "Of course," she told him.

"Choices," mused Draco. "These all point down to _my_ decisions, doesn't it?"

"Yes," replied Hermione, still as puzzled as ever.

"You said that I should _try to love Astoria_," said Draco slowly. "What if I _choose_ not to do so?"

"I'd say you were making a terrible choice."

"And if I _choose_ to love another? I _choose_ to love someone else?"

"You're not selfish," said Hermione stubbornly. "You wouldn't hurt Scorpius that way."

"And what if I _choose_ to be selfish, Granger? What then?"

* * *

For anyone that does not remember the _Incarcerous_ incident, it's on Ch. 12. :)

[A/N:Sorry for the semi-cliffy! There are two final main chapters coming up (as well as a 4-part epilogue for our four main characters). I'm so excited to finish this fic! :)

How do you like the reveal on Draco's relationship with Astoria? :) I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed making it for you! Please don't forget to lend me your thoughts on the… _other side_ of Draco. :P

To those who have favorited, followed, and to those who have reviewed (you know who you are!), thank you guys so much! You have no idea how much I appreciate them. I'm flattered to think that people read the bunch of bollocks I write! Hahaha :P

Don't forget to lend me your thoughts on this one! And thanks for reading. :) –Nina]

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(The next one is, personally, one of my favorite chapters! :D)

**PREVIEW OF NEXT CHAPTER:**

_Draco grinned drunkenly at the fellow wizard. "Fancy suit you got there." He had the gall to reach out and stroke the collar of his dark tux in a miserable attempt of concealing his disgust. "Hand-me-down, I presume?" he mocked._

_Ron slapped Draco's hand off of him and brushed the collar of his coat with exaggerated movements, as though the latter's contact with him could taint his surface. "No, because apparently, Malfoy, I'm not the same destitute person you once knew back at school."_

_Draco wolf-whistled. "Ooh, big words," he jeered. "Apparently, destitute… seems like someone's been sticking his head in a dictionary, Weasley. Realized you can't keep up with Hermione's internal thesaurus?"_

_Clearing her throat, she made herself known between the two hotheads once more. "Draco, you're drunk. I'll call Astoria over to take you home –"_

_But no sooner had she turned around to leave when Draco's hand reached out and suddenly clamped onto her wrist, stopping her advances._

_Ron almost growled at the contact. "Keep your hands OFF my wife."_

_Draco dropped Hermione's wrist immediately as though it were on fire and laughed in Ron's face. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Weasley, to know where my hands have already gone."_


	15. Encounter, Part 1

CHAPTER 15: Encounter, Part 1

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ron Weasley,  
It is our honor to invite you to attend our batch's Christmas party reunion at the Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on 24th of December, 2012 at 10 in the evening. It is Christmas time once again and we can not let this season pass without seeing you. You have been very special to us and we have prepared for this party for a couple of months.  
It is our wish that you will be able to find time for this said party.  
Hoping to see you on that day. Merry Christmas!  
RSVP: Parvati and Padma Patil (contact by owl)  
_

The grounds of Hogwarts School were filled with pristine, white snow, the scene looking as though it came out of a children's storybook. The Lake was thickly iced over, and every tree was bare of its leaves, their trunks frosted. The high turrets of the school were also crowned with the same cold frosting. It was a place of serenity and tranquility, as though the War that raged within the same grounds some years ago had never occurred.

Fire and destruction everywhere. Death in every corner…

The Great Hall was easily the biggest room in the entire castle. The size of a basketball court, it usually housed five long tables, but as of the moment only two long tables flushed to opposite walls resided, along with some round tables clothed in white dotted here and there. The enchanted ceiling showed snow falling serenely from the clear, night sky, and the room was basked in a warm, yellow light. Soft music drifted across the room.

Invited guests arrived one at a time, with their respective spouses. There were some familiar faces: Dean Thomas and his wife, Fay Dunbar; and Blaise and Daphne Zabini. Michael Corner, Hannah Abbott, Neville Longbottom, Parvati and Padma Patil – the list went on and on.

Then there were the non-survivors of the said War. Lavender Brown and Vincent Crabbe, among others, would never be able to attend this gathering. Would never be able to feel the cool winter air blowing gently at their faces, to feel the warmth of the morning rays of the sun…

And then there was one face – just one face she was most eager to see, even as she walked hand in hand with her husband –

She quickly brushed that thought off. Hermione, who walked in with her husband, instead looked sadly at her friend, Parvati Patil, as she remembered the Gossiping Duo. She and Lavender had practically been joined at the hip while they had been in school together; she wondered how she could have coped with the ordeal of losing her best friend.

Of course, these thoughts never usually crossed her mind; maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was walking around school again that they entered her thoughts somehow.

"'Mione!" someone called out from behind her. "Ron!"

Hermione and Ron automatically turned their heads to look behind them and beamed at the brunette head charging towards them at the same time.

"Neville!" greeted Hermione. "Or should I say, _Professor_ Longbottom?" she teased lightly.

Neville, who taught Herbology at Hogwarts, bushed slightly at the flattery. "Quite an enjoyable job, teaching and all. Hugo looks so much like you, Ron, that I call him Ron sometimes, you know?"

"Not the first person to tell me," quipped Ron. "Hugo wanted to come along so badly that I had to tell him there'd be snakes roaming around every corner; of course he didn't buy that."

Hugo and Rosie had been left with Mrs. Weasley for the night, seeing as how they couldn't attend the banquet.

"Well, you know children." Neville laughed. "Always so nosy." He beamed. "So, how are you two? You look great, by the way, Hermione." He complimented Hermione's silver cocktail gown: simple, yet alluring. Her mane of brown hair was done in casual waves flowing down the middle of her back.

"I'm very good, thank you. And you look dashing yourself."

"Yeah, well… thanks." Neville scratched the back of his head awkwardly, blushing profusely. "I'd better go; Hannah's waiting for me." And then with a small wave he strode off to where his pretty blonde wife waited for him, seated at one of the tables.

Apart from Neville, many others greeted the couple, last of which was their best friend, Harry Potter and his wife, Ginny. Hermione remembered the row which she'd had with her friend some few weeks ago, and was relieved when the latter neither showed animosity towards her nor brought up the conversation they'd previously had.

Harry looked as though there were a lot of other places he'd rather be in right now. "Well, this is interesting," he said simply to the couple.

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Harry," chastised Ginny. "This is, after all, your batch's reunion. You wouldn't want your friends to be disappointed when they realize that 'The Boy who Lived' didn't attend the celebration, would you?"

"Ha, ha," said Harry sarcastically.

"Are you sure it's not 'The Boy who Survived' now?" Hermione chimed in.

Ron chuckled. "Or 'The Dark Lord's Slayer?'"

"Precisely the reason I didn't want to attend," mumbled Harry under his breath. "People always entwine my name with Voldemort's; of course they would do more so that I'm here. At Hogwarts. Where the Battle of Hogwarts ensued."

"Don't be so morbid," said Hermione. "Everyone's having fun." She smiled around at the guests for emphasis. "Besides, the War's over. We need to replace those gruesome memories with these nice ones. Oh, look." Her happy tone of voice switched with her abrupt sour mood. "Pansy's arrived."

She grimaced at her school nemesis, Pansy Parkinson (now Pansy Nott), who arrived arm-in-arm with her husband, Theodore. Of course, the War had (somewhat) changed the previous stuck-up Pansy, but Hermione could not completely eliminate the animosity she felt for the dark-haired witch.

"Nice memories, eh?" said Harry, amused by the bitter look upon Hermione's face.

"Oh, shut up," said Hermione to him.

Harry only laughed. "Ginny and I'll get some drinks. See you both later." He walked off, but Ginny, with a smile and a quick, "I'll catch up with you," stayed behind.

The younger witch looked at Hermione intently, ignoring the confused look upon her brother's face. "It's nice to see you both _together_," said Ginny ominously, although she only looked at Hermione.

Hermione felt her mouth suddenly go very dry. She cleared her throat before answering. "Of course we're together," said Hermione airily with exaggerated nonchalance. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Ginny blinked a few times. "No reason," she said finally, and with a wave over her shoulder, she trudged off to follow her husband.

Hermione took a deep breath to compose her thundering heart before turning to look at her husband. Ron looked as puzzled as ever – his red brows were knotted together and there was a slight frown present upon his lips.

"Am I missing something? Inside joke?" asked Ron uncertainly.

"I –" Hermione shrugged and licked her lips nervously. "I don't know, Ron."

Ron looked unconvinced, but seemed eager to drop the subject. "Let's get ourselves some wine, then." Grinning, he took Hermione's hand in his coated arm and walked together towards the concession stand, but as they walked on through the wide expanse of the Great Hall, something stopped them short. Some sort of invisible life source glued their feet onto the marble floor, and try as they might to fiercely move from the spot, none of their efforts made any progress.

With realization suddenly dawning upon her, Hermione looked up from where she and her husband stood. She chuckled under her breath. "I completely forgot about those," she said with a sigh, relieved that the force upon them had been nowhere near Dark Magic, as she'd feared.

"About what?" asked Ron, who also looked above him as soon as he saw his wife doing so. He had to laugh at what he saw, too.

"Mistletoe," they breathed at the same time.

Ron turned her to face him and cupped her chin delicately in his fingers. A smile was present upon his face. "May I have the honor of kissing you, Mrs. Weasley?"

"It would be my pleasure."

* * *

_Bastard._

Draco downed the glass of alcohol in one swift gulp as he stood in the back of the Great Hall, his narrowed eyes never leaving one particular couple.

_Fucking bastard._

Although the blond-haired wizard undoubtedly had a little too much to drink already, his vision was uncharacteristically sharp: his gray eyes never left that dark-coated redhead with his silver-gowned wife. And he had to go through and watch that wretched moment when he put his lips to hers.

_Fucktard_.

He suddenly had that wild impulse to hit something again – maybe smash a few mirrors – but he knew that smashing that sodding freckled face instead would be priceless.

Unthinkingly, he grabbed the entire bottle of alcohol and unscrewed the cap, tipping the bottle onto his lips and letting the warm liquid seep into his welcoming throat.

Astoria found him exactly that way moments later, getting more and more inebriated as he watched, with a sick masochistic desire, _his witch_ with another man.

"What are you doing?" asked Astoria timidly, unsure if she wanted to know the answer or not.

Draco regarded his wife without bothering to mask his loathing of her. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he drawled sarcastically. "I'm drinking."

"You're drunk," said Astoria with revulsion.

Draco laughed. "I know. It feels so damn good. Maybe you should go get yourself drunk, too. You're so uptight all the time."

His wife looked at him with an almost terrified look upon her face. "I think we'd better get you home."

"No." Draco shook his blond head furiously. "You go. Get yourself drunk, fuck someone else; I don't care."

Astoria opened and closed her mouth to retort, but her disbelief was too great that she could not find the proper words. "I know that," she said finally. "You don't care. You never did."

"Finally!" Draco threw his hands up dramatically. "The girl gets it! I don't give a shit about you, Astoria! I never cared about you, and I never loved you. Never will." His tone was almost boastful, proud, as his words sunk into his wife's heart. "I've been wanting for you to get that in your little red head for the longest time."

"But I don't care, too, Draco!" countered Astoria resolutely, and for some reason that he couldn't comprehend in his drunken state, there were tears flowing down her eyes. "I don't care if you don't love me! All that matters is that _I_ love _you_. More than anything or anyone else."

Draco smirked at the young witch. "That's cute. But. I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck." He emphasized each word, enunciated it slowly. "Now get out of my face."

With a scorned look upon _her_ face, Astoria walked away from the drunken man, sobbing. She'd never openly expressed her deepest feelings to Draco, but when she found the strength to do so, he had disregarded her words with such ease. If she'd only been broken by him before, now she was left devastated, shattered beyond repair.

Draco didn't know why, but that small encounter with his wife sparked his liquid courage even more. And so, wiping his mouth on the back of his shirt sleeve, he trudged towards the couple he'd perpetually been watching before he had rudely been interrupted with his wife's nonsense.

_Let's see where Weasley stacks up against me after many, many years._

* * *

"Hey, Weasel!" someone called out from behind the couple. Hermione's heart thundered erratically in her ears. Although she hadn't turned around to look just yet, she knew exactly who'd called her husband. And she didn't like it one bit.

She wanted to ignore the rude name-calling, but Ron didn't allow her to. And so, with a heavy sigh, she looked at the handsome blond man trudging towards them, and her heart gave a leap. A leap of what, she did not know. But what she did know was that somehow, one way or another, an encounter between the two men in her life was inevitable.

A scowl adorned her husband's features as he saw who came towards them, his eyes darkening.

Draco stalked in front of the couple like a predator about to strike upon his prey. "Weasley," he drawled out.

"Malfoy," greeted Ron curtly, who bobbed his head slightly. Hermione's grip on his arm tightened, as though she were holding him back just in case a physical brawl between the two men ensued.

Draco grinned drunkenly at the fellow wizard. "Fancy suit you got there." He had the gall to reach out and stroke the collar of his dark tux in a miserable attempt of concealing his disgust. "Hand-me-down, I presume?" he mocked.

"Draco, stop it," said Hermione, whose voice shook that it sounded as though it weren't hers. She chastised herself inwardly afterwards, for slipping and calling Draco by his first name.

Ron slapped Draco's hand off of him and brushed the collar of his coat with exaggerated movements, as though the latter's contact with him could taint his surface. "No, because apparently, Malfoy, I'm not the same destitute person you once knew back at school."

Draco wolf-whistled. "Ooh, big words," he jeered. "_Apparently_, _destitute_… seems like someone's been sticking _his_ head in a dictionary, Weasley. Realized you can't keep up with Hermione's internal thesaurus?"

Hermione bit her lip nervously. She needed to stop this. Draco was pitifully drunk – there was no doubt about that, with the way he precariously swayed from side to side and the way his words slurred. And she had first-hand experience to prove how he was while intoxicated –

And so, clearing her throat, she made herself known between the two hotheads once more. "Draco, you're drunk. I'll call Astoria over to take you home –"

But no sooner had she turned around to leave when Draco's hand reached out and suddenly clamped onto her wrist, stopping her advances.

Ron almost growled at the contact. "Keep your hands OFF my wife."

Draco dropped Hermione's wrist immediately as though it were on fire and laughed in Ron's face. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Weasley, to know where my hands have _already gone_ –"

"Enough, Draco!" Hermione cut him off, her voice rising with hysteria.

Ron looked at her in puzzlement. "What's he talking about?"

"I have no idea," replied Hermione, her eyes laced with disdain as she looked at the drunken wizard. "Best we leave him alone."

"That's what you're good at, isn't it, Hermione?" Draco called out openly as the couple made to turn away from the problematic blond. "Leaving people alone without any explanation as to _why_ you're doing it –"

Hermione turned around to regard Draco with utter blankness. "I have nothing to say to you anymore," she whispered brokenly, and continued on the direction away from him, leaving him to wallow in a bottomless pool of self-pity and misery.

Before they could fully leave the blond wizard, however, Ron quickly turned back around and gave Draco what she'd been dreading since the first rude words were exchanged between the two men.

Her husband's tight fist cut swiftly through the air and landed squarely upon the other's jaw, a little too close to the edge of his mouth, knocking the latter back a few steps.

Her hand shot to her own mouth in reflex, smothering her gasp, and the incident giving rise to quite a few gasps from others.

It surprised her, though, that Draco showed no signs of retaliating…

Throughout the hubbub, Hermione strained to hear what her husband was murmuring to the jaw-massaging, eye-glaring Draco, but was unfortunate enough to hear only his final word:

"…_family_."

* * *

[A/N: The final chapter (Encounter, Part 2) will be short compared to the other chappies (I think). I don't want to spoil the ending, though, so you'll just have to wait and see! :P

Thanks for reading, following, favoriting, and most especially for reviewing! And while I appreciate the reviews, I know I honestly can't please everyone *sigh*. But I do love the fact that people are honest when they're reviewing. :) Thank you all sooo much! Don't forget to leave a review for this one, too, please! Thank you. :) –Nina]

Oh, yeah! I've also put up a one-shot songfic entitled **Her Broken Smile**. Pretty please read it? :D it would make me ecstatic if you did! P.S. please consider my AN there. Thank youuu! :)

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_No preview here, because that would just give the ending away. I promise not to keep you guys boiling in suspense for too long, though. :D_


	16. Encounter, Part 2

CHAPTER 16: Encounter, Part 2

"…_family_."

Hermione stepped outside into the gardens after that heated, although short, encounter between her husband and lover. It had stopped snowing sometime into the night, and the winter weather only created a thin blanket of snow upon the blades of grass. She shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself.

Normally, the refreshing sight of the gardens would've lifted her spirits considerably. She loved the smell of the greenery, of seeing the water fountain bubble innocently, of the feel of nature encompassing her. She liked that she could be alone with nature, with no one else with her. But right now, she felt otherwise.

Although she hadn't wanted to leave her husband inside the castle for fear that the brawl might ensue while she was gone, she felt it was more prudent if she did. Otherwise, Ron would've noticed the warm wetness falling down her cheeks, which was emphasized greatly with the way the cold winter air bitterly lashed at against her skin. She took a deep breath through her mouth and shut her eyes tightly, willing her mind to focus on something else.

But try as hard as she might, she could not help but envision Draco's face as she made to walk away from him. She thought she was doing the right thing, but why did it _hurt_? It wasn't supposed to hurt, was it, because he'd hurt _her_ first!

And his words – they cut through her very soul like a hot knife slicing through butter. _"That's what you're good at, isn't it, Hermione? Leaving people alone without any explanation as to why you're doing it!"_

Explanations weren't needed anymore! What he'd done to her was enough reason…

With her fingernails slicing through the skin of her arms, Hermione's frame shook in that very spot. The unrelenting cold enveloped her again, and for once, she felt as though she deserved this sort of discomfort. She felt worthy of every pain, of every sting that the bitter winter threw at her.

_I'm a cheat. I deserve this. And I let myself fall –_

"Hermione." A voice sounded from the darkness.

Straightening, Hermione discreetly brushed away the dampness that was present on her cheeks with the back of her hand. After clearing her throat she said, in a remarkably unruffled voice, "What are you doing here?"

Draco stepped out of the hedge that separated him from the brunette. "I noticed you had gone."

"Take your drunken shit back to the Great Hall, Draco. And stay the hell away from me." The words burned in her mouth as she said it, but she ignored the stabbing sensation.

Draco sighed wearily. "Don't you ever get tired of lying to yourself?" he asked her in disbelief, his words only slightly slurring. "We both know –" he hesitated for a while before continuing, "– that's not how you truly feel."

Hermione laughed mirthlessly, twisting around to completely face Draco now. "Then what is it, Draco? What is it that you think I _feel_?"

Draco shook his head with evident hopelessness at the girl. "I don't know, because you're not admitting it to yourself, either, so _I don't know_," he repeated. "But I'm ready, Granger, to admit things. And do you want to know what _I_ feel?" His voice was rising, evident anger upon his features. "I feel like shit, watching you strut around with Weasley – kiss him, _defend_ him – when we both know that there is something between us –"

"THERE IS _NOTHING_ BETWEEN US!" insisted Hermione feverishly.

"BULLSHIT!" roared Draco. "That's a lie and you know it! Why won't you just admit it for once?!" Draco crossed that distance between them in one smooth motion and gripped the tops of her arms, forcing her to make eye contact with him, to force her brown eyes into his gray ones. "Look at me, Granger!" he yelled when she didn't do so. "Look me in the eye and tell me that you feel absolutely nothing for me."

Hermione didn't meet his eyes. "Let me go, Draco," she said passively.

"I can't. I fucking can't," he said through his teeth.

"What do you mean you can't?"

And then Draco was screaming again. "Do you have any idea how living was for me during the past three months?! When it's your face I see clearly behind my closed lids? When it's your lips I taste as Astoria kisses mine? When it's your name I feel oftentimes at the tip of my tongue as I make love to Astoria? When it's your body, it's your company I crave for during the night! Do you not understand that?!" Draco shook her fiercely. "I can't let you go, Hermione! I can't…"

"And you think I don't feel the same?!" revealed Hermione before she could even consider stopping herself. But the words had been spoken, and she had no choice but to continue. "When it's your memory that haunts me during the evenings! I'm afraid to fall asleep at night for fear that I would somehow utter your name while I dreamt –"

"Then why are we stopping this? Why are we denying ourselves?"

"Because we have families, Draco! Families who will get hurt if we listen to nothing but our own selfish desires!"

"But we could run away, Hermione," he reasoned out. "We could fight for this. We could fight for what we want. I –" He swallowed deeply before letting the next words rush out of his mouth. "I want to be with you, Hermione."

His voice was so raw with emotion that Hermione could not help but greedily want to run away with him, too.

"I _have_ to be with you," Draco went on. And then he laughed with disbelief, mostly to himself. "I don't know what the fuck I'm saying right now. But I don't care about the 'what,' though; I care about the 'why.' I have to be with you; otherwise, life would have no direction –"

"Even if we _did_ fight, then what does that say about us?" Hermione argued. "This family crisis is bigger than you and I will ever be, Draco! This isn't about you and me alone – there's Astoria, and Scorpius; Ron, Rosie, and Hugo." She shut her eyes tightly and voiced out a secret whim. "I'd run away with you, too, if only we didn't have to hurt others in the process of doing so –"

"Then we'll bring the children," he persuaded her. "I'll love Rosie and Hugo as though they were my own –"

"Is that how selfish you've become?! How could you possibly take Scorpius away from his mother? Or take Rosie and Hugo away from Ron? Think about it! If your own son were taken from you, what would you do?"

When Draco lowered his gaze and didn't answer her question immediately, she repeated her question once more with more force.

"What would you do?!"

"I don't know!" roared Draco desperately. "But I do know one thing. _I need you_, Hermione. Please."

It broke her heart to have to hear him beg, to have to hear him beg for her.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered dejectedly. "But it's impossible."

"But I don't want this to end! I don't want us to end."

"What is there to end," said Hermione with a mirthless smile, "when there wasn't even an '_us'_ to begin with in the first place? What happened between us three months ago, what happened between us fifteen years ago – all were nothing but utter mistakes –"

"Yes, they were mistakes, but they were mistakes _both of us wanted to make_!"

"That doesn't matter anymore. It was all a mistake." Hermione tried to make her tone firm, but it wavered on the way out of her mouth.

"Mistake," sneered Draco. "Tell me, Granger. Was my loving you a mistake? YES, GRANGER! I LOVE YOU! I FUCKING LOVE YOU!"

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. Letting him go was harder than she initially thought it would be, as the tears threatened to flow down the corners of her eyes. Draco's gray eyes were glazed over, too, and he let go finally of the tops of her arms and took his own shuddering breath as he ran his hand through his silver blond hair. Hermione's arms felt numb – her entire body felt numb.

"That was what you wanted to hear, wasn't it?" said Draco, whose voice dropped to a low whisper. "I fucking love you. I fucking do. And I hate myself for it."

Hermione had to laugh, despite the tears, at the blatant curses Draco laced into what was probably the most beautiful thing that could have come out of his mouth. "I always thought you were incapable of loving anyone else besides yourself."

He simply shrugged, seeming somehow exhausted with his outburst. "Now you know. Everything is so fucked up."

Tentatively, Hermione reached out to stroke the stubble at his jaw. "You… love me." She meant for that to sound like a question, but she couldn't articulate it as such.

"I don't want to have to repeat myself over and over," said Draco brusquely, although his voice was still raw.

Hermione smiled grimly. "It wouldn't be impossible for you, then, to love Astoria the way you love me. The way she deserves to be loved –"

"Astoria would never have one-tenth of the feelings I have for you! You know I've tried to love her; you have no idea how hard I've tried doing so –"

"But trying isn't enough! You have to _learn_ to love Astoria. Do it for Scorpius. Do it for yourself."

Draco screwed his eyes in pain. "I can't."

"Do it for me. If you really do love me."

Draco's eyes flew open and they regarded her with such ardent desperation. "Do you still doubt me on that? How many times do I have to repeat myself?! I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU! AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!"

Hermione shook her head. "Love is never selfish, Draco."

"Then what do you want me to do?" said Draco through clenched teeth.

"Let me go."

"To hell with that!"

"Because I love you, too, Draco," Hermione finally revealed. "And it hurts to admit it, because we both know it won't do us any good."

And with that confession, Draco's mouth sought hers in a kiss so heated that she literally felt the fire singe her veins. The electric shock of that kiss – after they'd both uttered the secret whims of their hearts – was by far more powerful than any other shock of any other kiss they'd felt before. But Hermione could only kiss him back with such grief as she knew precisely how their love story would end. The kiss was wet and salty with their intermingled tears and she felt her heart breaking with every deep thud of it.

And then Hermione had to pull away, for she knew she could not bear to break Draco's heart any longer.

"Why are you doing this to me?" whispered Draco, a tear shedding from the corner of his right eye as he squeezed both of them shut and rested his forehead upon hers. "Why are you choosing to leave me? Are you saying that my loving you was pointless all along?"

Hermione smiled hollowly. "It wasn't completely pointless. I got to know you. I got to change my previous perception of you." She cupped a hand on Draco's jaw and brushed away that tear with the pad of her thumb. "There was another side to you. A gentle one."

"This is gentle?" said Draco sarcastically, as he reached too for Hermione's face to stroke the faint outline of his beating on her moist cheek. "Hardly. I'll show you gentle. If you would just… stay with me."

"I wouldn't have asked for more, Draco. You loved me. That was more than enough. At least I know my efforts weren't futile, that my feelings weren't unrequited." Hermione paused to clear her throat. When she spoke again, she spoke with conviction, not with the broken murmurs anymore. "But it's over. We have to forget things."

Draco, appalled, twisted away from Hermione's proximity. "I'm not letting you Obliviate my memories!"

"It's the only way, Draco –"

"But there _is_ another way! What if we Obliviated Weasley's and Astoria's memories instead? Then we could be free! We wouldn't feel any guilt because they wouldn't be able to remember us anyway!"

"Would you be able to continue on living with that knowledge weighing at your conscience?" whispered Hermione. "Besides, I'm _tired_, Draco. I'm really tired."

"Tired of what?!" Draco was shouting again.

"Tired of having to say goodbye over and over. Because it hurts. All the time," Hermione sobbed. "Aren't you tired of this yet?"

"Maybe you've given up, but I haven't," said Draco fiercely. "I will never grow tired of loving you, Hermione."

Hermione hung her head sadly. "It's a lost cause. I _love_ you, Draco, but I don't _like_ you anymore, not after what you've done –"

"Maybe I haven't made myself clear enough! I. LOVE. YOU! And I fucking apologize for what I did! It was an act of momentary stupidity, Granger! I was _ANGRY_!"

Hermione's vision blurred with a fresh wave of tears. "And I forgave you for that. That isn't enough to justify what you did, though. It doesn't change anything."

"Then don't go, if it doesn't change anything!" Draco's voice cracked. "Don't let _me_ go. Because I'm not allowing you to."

Hermione smiled brokenly at her lover as she reached for him again to stroke the side of his neck. "I never said that _I_ would let you go."

"Then what are we having this conversation –"

"Close your eyes."

Draco's mouth clamped shut as he regarded Hermione's request with confusion. "What?"

"Close your eyes," repeated Hermione in a murmur.

"I'm scared that you'll leave me," said Draco in the same soft whisper.

"I won't," Hermione promised. "I just want a kiss."

When he leaned in to kiss her, Hermione stopped him. "No. _I_ want to kiss you. Just… close your eyes."

Draco looked wary, but he obeyed her and slowly closed his gray eyes. Hermione wished he wouldn't close them, but it was necessary. The pair of eyes she'd grown accustomed to, the pair of eyes she'd grown to love – the gateway to his soul. She wouldn't be able to see them anymore without the disgust laced upon them because of her blood status instead of love…

Hermione stood on her tiptoes to touch her lips to his, ever so gently. She felt his lips pucker for the slightest moment.

But, simultaneously, she pulled the wand hidden underneath the hem of her gown. Although her heart broke with her conviction, her body showed no sign that it did. She was able to raise her wand without her arm trembling.

She pulled back for the slightest bit and murmured, "_Obliviate_."

Hermione watched his shut eyes strain for the slightest moment as the spell took its effect. His lips slightly puckered with discomfort as his memories of her slowly disintegrated.

But as the stuttering, defeated breaths left her mouth, she let one thought comfort her, though. In a way, she'd kept her promise to Draco. _She_ didn't let him go.

_He_ was letting his memories of her go.

Hermione, on impulse, ran the pads of her fingers on every defined line, every crease on his face, as though wanting to tattoo it forever into her mind. She started with his narrow forehead, down to his pale eyelids, the hollows beneath his eyes, his sharp cheekbones, smooth cheeks, sculpted nose, and pointed chin. She closed her eyes as she did so, and saw his face beneath her closed lids.

When she opened her eyes, she moved to his lips. The smooth, waxy surface of his pale lips. The cleft on his full bottom lip. It crushed her to think that she would never be able to feel these lips on hers again –

_I love you._

He had hurt her, but there was no reason for her to lie, not to her own self. She'd been scarred by this man, both physically and figuratively, but she still felt her heart breaking. It was degrading and she hated herself for it, but she had never fallen in love more deeply for another than for the very same man who had broken her in.

If she had all eternity, she would've stayed in that same spot and just let her eyes greedily roam over his face. But time was moving, and the Memory Charm was about to be finished in fulfilling its purpose.

On that same day, fifteen years ago, the fates of two young lovers suddenly intertwined.

And now, fifteen years later, destiny tried to salvage the relationship of the same young lovers –

But _choice_ had to intervene.

And Fate and Destiny can only do so much when the Mindfuck was the only one often heeded…

Draco's eyelids twitched.

Hermione ignored the devastating sensation of having to lose someone you loved in the pit of her stomach that threatened to make her crumble to her knees, and instead proceeded, although shakily, to move away from Draco.

Away from temptation. Away from happiness.

Away from love.

She was going, going… gone.

His gray eyes opened, and they regarded the brunette in the silver dress walking away from him.

He was gone, too. They both were.

Already gone.

Though their passion for another had been achieved in such an erroneous manner, it was nevertheless unfair that a difficult moment of choosing had to set in.

Family over fate…

…contentment over bliss…

…and life over love.

**The End**

* * *

Special mention to the song _Already Gone_ by Kelly Clarkson, without which this chapter might not have been plausible. (Check this song out if you have the time! This was my song inspiration for the chapter. :D)

[A/N: So… that's it. A little sad right now. :( I am giving you guys complete permission to whack me with a sledgehammer for the unhappy ending, or kiss me for the salvation of Hermione's sanity. This was how I'd always envisioned the ending to be, though, because I really can't imagine Hermione wanting to have anything to do with Draco after what he'd done to her. (Sorry to those who were hoping for a happy ending! :( )

The story isn't over yet. There's still a 4-part Epilogue coming (for our four main characters) and it's entitled _Secrets_. (Yes, there will be secrets! So you'll just have to wait and see what those are mwahahaha!)

I'd also like to offer my sincerest apologies to everyone who found this chapter superbly corny and leaking with cheesy and clichéd lines. I felt it had to be necessary, though, considering the situation. Also, another round of apologies to people who were offended by the mere fact that Hermione _still_ fell in love with her rapist despite the incident.

And, thank you to everyone who've read, favorited, followed, and most especially to those people who've perpetually reviewed! I am forever grateful for each read/view this story got.

Lend me your thoughts on this final chapter :) until the Epilogues, lovelies! And thanks again for reading. –Nina]

* * *

I know I'm probably too late in posting this, but I honestly just forgot to put it at the beginning!

**DISCLAIMER**: All characters and recognizable plot belong to the very lovely J.K. Rowling, without who this fic might not have been plausible. And without who, my time would have been wasted away doing nothing productive like study for school. And without who, I might not have met the dashing Tom Felton (sigh). And without who, the world of _Harry Potter_ would not have been created and we Potterheads would not know where we would be in right now. (Although I still am upset that Hermione ended up with Ron. Ew.)


	17. Epilogue: Secrets, Part 1 (Trust)

EPILOGUE: Secrets, Part 1 (Trust)

"_This isn't even a smidgen of the pain you're causing me and my _family_."_

I'm not usually antisocial, but I find myself ignoring the only person trying to make conversation with me right now. She sounds pathetic to me. Maybe more so that I haven't seen her in a long time and have somewhat forgotten how she used to be back in school. As I regard her, she is wearing a glittered black dress that hugs her body in a way that is too provocative. She seems to like the attention, though, which is very typical of her.

"Weasley," she greets me in her perpetually malicious, nasally voice. "You're looking dashing."

I raise the wine glass to my lips and take a sip of champagne, choosing not to make eye contact with her.

"Ooh, since when have you been such a snobby prat?" she says with slight irritation, but mostly sardonically.

I decide to humor the pathetic dark-haired woman. "Go badger someone else, Parkinson," I say brusquely.

"Definitely snobby," she purrs. "And, if you haven't heard the news, I'm _Mrs_. Nott now. But I could be _Ms_. Parkinson to you."

My stomach recoils with disgust when I realize that Pansy Parkinson is flirting with me in a sad, sad manner. I ignore her words and bluntly turn away from her.

"After all," she leans in to murmur in my ear, "third parties are big in your family, isn't it, Weasley?"

Goosebumps run up and down my spine as her warm breath comes in contact with my skin. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you aware of the fact that your _saintly_ –" she sneers the word, "– wife is outside right at this moment, playing tonsil-Quidditch with another man?"

I take another sip of my champagne as I choose my words carefully. "I don't care," I say simply.

Pansy looks baffled at my lack of interest at what she considers to be "explosive" news. She slightly recoils, but quickly regains herself. "And are you aware of the fact that your wife is outside, shouting about and confessing how much she is in love with _another_ man?" she presses on, slowly emphasizing each word.

"I don't care," I repeat, shrugging.

Her cold blue eyes narrows. "Oh, you will, once you find out _who_."

Despite my attempt at showing a passive consideration to the news, my body betrays me as the wine glass shakes violently in my cupped hand. Pansy seems to take pleasure in that. "Ron, baby," she coos, placing a possessive arm on my shoulder. "You don't need a slutty woman in your life."

"Then get the hell out of my face," I bite back.

Pansy withdraws as though I have just slapped her. And then she smiles evilly, showing a set of blindingly white teeth. "You're very stubborn. But I suppose you'll open your eyes soon enough because I'm pretty sure your wife is shagging _Draco Malfoy_ right now," she says spitefully, greedily looking at my face for the reaction she hopes to achieve from me.

But I plainly shrug.

"Nothing I haven't heard of before," I say with boredom, and walk away from her.

* * *

You're probably wondering how I know.

Well, here's the truth. I _don't_.

I don't know anything. I don't think I even know who my wife is anymore.

But I had my doubts. I had my suspicions.

The first time I doubted her was on the month of December, fifteen years ago. She told me she'd spent the night with her parents, with my father- and mother-in-law.

But she doesn't know what I know.

* * *

_FIFTEEN YEARS AGO_

"Hey, Rosmerta!" greets Harry. We are seated in the corner booth of the Three Broomsticks.

"Well, if it isn't Harry Potter!" says Madam Rosmerta. "The usual, I suppose?"

Harry grins as he nods, and pretty soon, our drinks – two bottles of Firewhiskey – are delivered by Madam Rosmerta herself.

"Here you are," she says, and puts her hands on her hips. "Now, where's your other friend? The girl?"

"Oh, Hermione," I say, realizing just who she had been referring to. "She's my wife now." I grin proudly.

But Madam Rosmerta looks disbelievingly at me. "Are you sure about that?" she inquires with skepticism.

Her reaction puzzles me. "Yes. We've been married for two years now," I say uncertainly.

"Well, that's certainly surprising," she muses.

"Why?" This time, it is Harry who asks the question.

"'Cause I'm pretty sure I just saw her here, two nights ago, cozying up to the Malfoy boy. They even stayed together overnight."

The words all seem to be strung together in the same sentence in a wrong way. I blink a few times as I digest the news. I don't know whether I should laugh or not.

"Well, you must be mistaken," laughs Harry. He takes the news very lightly. "Hermione hates Malfoy. I can't imagine her _cozying up_ to him."

I nod in assent, a sure indication that I believe his hypothesis.

"Well, I'm just telling you what I saw," insists Madam Rosmerta. "And anyway, for all I know, they could've just stayed in the room and played wizards' chess all night. I don't know what they did in there." And with that, she leaves, her long skirt billowing behind her.

"That was ludicrous," laughs Harry as soon as she is out of earshot. An amused grin is present on his lips. "Just imagine Malfoy's reaction when he realizes that he'd just shagged what he calls a _Mudblood_. No offense, mate," he quickly adds.

"None taken," I say dismissively.

Although Harry's theory is indisputably the most coherent and the most believable, I cannot help but relay just what exactly happened two nights ago.

She storms out of the house at night. And then she tells me she spent the night with her parents come morning.

But Madam Rosmerta says otherwise.

I trust Hermione, though.

I trust her.

* * *

And then I had my suspicions.

_A FEW MONTHS AGO_

When I wake up, it is still dark outside. I have just woken up from a delicious dream about our honeymoon in Rome, Italy, and am hungry for my wife. I long to love her tonight.

She is sleeping soundly right next to me, the moonlight basking her face in a pale glow. Her lips are parted in the most luscious way and her ample breasts are rising up and down with her heavy breathing. Her cinnamon hair spills over the cotton pillow, creating a halo atop her head.

I run my fingers tenderly over her sleeping form, starting with her face and down her neck. I feel her shiver and her lips release a soft moan.

That moan makes the blood rush down to my groin, making the hardness between my legs almost unbearable. I eagerly kiss her neck and relish another moan from her.

As I heatedly cup her breasts in my hands, her next moan stops me cold.

"Draco," she breathes.

I quickly recoil at the sound, at the name that comes out from her mouth. I pull myself off her sleeping form and stare at her with wide eyes.

"Draco," she repeats.

Her next move disgusts me. She places her hand between her thighs and caresses herself there, all the while uttering his name and his name only.

All in all that time, she is still unconscious.

That makes everything worse… not better.

Because in one's unconscious state, one could not lie…

My throat is suddenly very dry and my breaths are leaving me in pants of fiery rage. With a jolt, I throw myself off her and onto the farthest edge of the bed, the farthest away from her. Her breathings of _his name_ still continue. I curl up into a ball and block out all the wet sounds by putting my hands over my ears.

I could not sleep after that.

The next morning, I pretend I never saw what happened last night and treat her with the same love as before.

Why?

Because I still trust Hermione.

I _still_ trust her.

* * *

They say secrets have a way of surfacing to the top, but I choose to ignore mine, and walk away from it.

After all, if you ignore it, it will go away.

I trust Hermione.

I trust Hermione will do the right thing.

I trust Hermione loves Rosie and Hugo more than she will ever love anyone else.

* * *

For those who were confused as to what the italicized words at the beginning meant, they were what Ron muttered to Draco after the uppercut to the jaw. :D

[A/N: How do you find Ron's secret? Review please! Thank you! And thanks again for reading. BTW, I'm working on a new fic entitled Demolition Lovers, and have finished the first 2 chapters. I'll put it up as soon as this one is finished. :D

Thanks to all the reviews for the last chapter! :) -Nina]


	18. Epilogue: Secrets, Part 2 (Pretense)

EPILOGUE: Secrets, Part 2 (Pretense)

Tears gather in her purplish-blue eyes as she regards me, her eyes pleading.

I wonder why that is.

"I'm pregnant," she breathes out, a sob lacing the final word.

I blink a few times as I digest the news, confused as to why there are sad tears in her eyes as she tells me. After all, I wouldn't be upset this way if I found out I was pregnant.

And then I recall something, something of utter consequence…

"But… Blaise hasn't come back, has he?" I whisper.

Her only response to that was another sob. My sister has just slept with another when she is to be wed in a few weeks' time…

I can't blame her, though. Blaise is an incorrigible workaholic.

"Whose, then?" I ask, shrugging.

Daphne doesn't answer immediately, choosing to sob even harder. I patiently wait for her tears to subside. If I know Daphne, her relationship with Blaise is the only thing that would make her cry this much – with regards to other matters, she never batted an eyelash.

She hangs her head and finally says in one breath, "It's Draco's."

_It's Draco's._

Momentarily stunned, my breath leaves my mouth in a loud whoosh. Seeing the horrorstricken look upon my face, Daphne quickly whispers, "I'm sorry, Astoria."

"You slept… with my husband?" My voice is barely more than her whisper.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, sobbing again.

My hand slices through the air and smacks her squarely on the cheek before I could even make sense of what I am doing.

"You fucking whore." A tear slides down my left cheek. "You. Fucking. _Whore_."

"It was an accident!" Tears are sliding down her cheeks as well. "He was upset, I was drunk – it sort of just happened –"

"You perfectly know my _problem_, Daph!" I sob-scream at her in torment, cutting off her pathetic excuses. "I'm nothing but a _barren_ bitch to him, to my own husband! I've lost my babies twice, Daphne! Fucking _twice_! I can't spawn a fucking baby for my own husband for more than three weeks or they die inside of me, don't you get it?! He might as well leave me for you, for he very much wants his heir!"

"He doesn't have to know about this –"

"No one else will spawn the Malfoy heir besides me, Daphne!" I say hysterically.

"I won't kill my baby," she says resolutely, wrapping both her arms around her abdomen as if to back her words. "I won't let anyone kill my baby."

I cock a disbelieving eyebrow at my sister. "Fine," I say. "You better start praying to all the deities, you little slag, that he looks nothing like you."

In suspicion, Daphne looks into my eyes.

"He's my husband's baby; therefore he is _mine_," I say unrelentingly. "If he even looks a smidgen like you, Daphne, you leave me with no choice..."

* * *

Five months was all it took for the bastard to see the world.

After agonizing hours later, the baby, wrapped in a bundle of white blankets, is delivered to me by the distraught-looking private Healer, who Apparates quickly, mumbling about pressing matters. I nod in consent as soon as she tells me she's done everything that needs to be.

I take the tiny life into my unwilling arms and look deeply into the face of my husband's sleeping son.

Yes, _son_.

He's finally gotten the heir he wants so badly.

Though I wasn't in the same room with her, my sister's pleading howls could be heard through the corridor.

"Let me see him, Tori! Please!" she sobs. "I just want to see my baby!"

Her loud blubbering stirs the little blond baby, eliciting a tiny cry from his shell-pink lips.

He looks so much like Draco…

"I'm making things easier for you, Daphne," I say coldly, just loud enough for her to hear. The baby looks inquiringly up at me, oblivious to the world.

Of course, during the past five months we've been secluded here in Merlin-knows-where, I knew her sharp shriek of agony would inevitably cut through the corridor and into the tiny eardrums of the baby, reducing him to a ball of crying, whimpering mess.

I take the screaming baby into the room, wanting the scream-fest to end quickly. Daphne is propped up on the pillows, her face streaked with tears, her arms outstretched as soon as she sees me enter the room with her child, her face lighting up considerably.

The Healer has done a good job. There is no blood, no indication that childbirth had just occurred within these four walls in the past hours.

"Oh," she coos, as I thrust the little boy into her open arms. "He looks so much like Draco…"

And just then, just as sudden as a light switch being flicked off, my decision wavers. I might not be able to keep the tiny creature as my own.

My conscience, just like the Hufflepuff I was _supposed_ to be, weighed heavily upon my shoulders…

There is something about a mother's glance at her firstborn. Something that defies even magic. Like watching a sunset, one never criticizes that the sun seems more oval than round, nor does one take heed of the clouds partially obscuring his vision. No. One simply stops at the beauty. Stares at the splendor.

If I didn't want to cause as much pain in exchange for her betrayal, I would've let her keep the little boy…

Daphne looks up at me with understanding, hope-filled eyes. "You'll let me visit him, right?"

It is on the tip of my tongue to say yes. I love my sister…

…but I love my husband more.

"I'm sorry, Daphne." My voice falters on the way out my mouth. I raise my wand slowly, each movement deliberate. "_Obliviate_."

The spell, coupled with the fact that she is still fatigued from her labor, makes her unconscious, but not before I catch the glimpse of pain in her eyes. She collapses atop the bed, the impact muffled by the soft down pillows.

I always thought revenge would make me feel better.

Helga usually prevented it, though.

I look down upon the baby, his features tiny yet definitively Draco's. Fortunately, he wouldn't remember any of this.

Our son.

_My_ son.

Scorpius.

* * *

They say secrets have a way of surfacing to the top, but I choose to disregard mine, and live in my own version of the truth.

My sister doesn't have a son. _I_ am my son's mother, despite Daphne being his carrier.

And Draco loves me more than anything or anyone else, despite him demonstrating otherwise…

* * *

[A/N: Here you go! What'd you think of Astoria's secret? Review please! Thank youuu!

Also, I would like to say a huge THANK YOU to **Frozenflame** for your review… I mean, words cannot express how much I loved reading it (I read it over and over!). I would've loved to send you a PM instead, but you're a guest reader, so… Thank you soooo much for your very profound, insightful review. :)

Thanks for reading, favoriting, following, and most especially for reviewing! Draco's and Hermione's secrets coming up are next in line! –Nina]


	19. Epilogue: Secrets, Part 3 (Denial)

EPILOGUE: Secrets, Part 3 (Denial)

The sun is brightly shining outside. There are no clouds to mar the pristine surface of the clear cerulean sky. The weather is unbearably hot with only the slightest breeze to alleviate it.

I passionately hate the summer season, because my office at the Ministry feels like the inside of a cauldron. I fan myself with my hand and push my sweaty hair off my eyes, but it does nothing for me. It gives me no ease.

Silently cussing, I crouch down on my knees and rummage in the bottommost compartment of my desk. Of all the times to have misplaced my quill.

A landslide of old documents and rejected memorandum circulars greets me.

"Fuck."

I hastily grab as much papers as was humanly possible in my hands and push them all to one side. As I do so, something catches my eye.

It is a leather-bound notebook buried underneath the pile of papers, one I remember getting for Christmas while I had still been in school.

The location of the said notebook intrigues me. I wonder why it has been put here. It seems as though it were purposefully put here, so as not to be found.

Shrugging, and thinking that there probably would not be anything written in it, I unfasten the gold lock.

I am mistaken. Three lines of writing greet me on the first page.

_If you are reading this, and don't remember yourself ever writing this,  
one thing's for certain:  
The love of your life, Hermione Granger, has succeeded in Obliviating your memories._

I snicker. This is a funny journal, although it attempted at a very dark, mysterious heading.

Besides, I don't think any person in their right minds would fall in love with that filthy Mudblood. I don't count the weasel because _he's_ not in his right mind.

I flip the page and some more ridiculous lines greet me.

_I know what you're thinking of right now.  
After all, I am you. And you are me._

_You are me_? I echo, laughing at how ridiculous the words sound together. This person – whoever he is – needs to brush up on his grammar. It does sound somewhat grammatically incorrect, doesn't it?

_Bollocks, you say. I wouldn't fall in love with a filthy Mudblood.  
Wake up, dickbrain!_

Something in that makes me ponder. After all, I call _myself_ dickbrain… sometimes. Especially when I am mad.

_Mudbloods, Purebloods… they're just brands.  
I know, because I fell in love with one.  
And so did you. So would you._

My forehead wrinkles. Suddenly, everything doesn't seem like a joke anymore.

Whoever this person was, he needs to meet me. He needs a grave verbal beating on what Mudbloods were and what they did to our wizarding world. How dare he leave his journal here, a journal full of blasphemy!

_Unconvinced? Try reading to shed some light on your Obliviated memories._

I scoff at that, but I turn the page. I'd like to see what this one's got inside.

"_You foul, loser, some evil little cockroach!"_

For some reason, the words tickle something in my brain. And then I remember: Granger had said those words to me on our third year. My eyes narrow as I recall. Just how does this person know about that? After Granger screamed at me, I remember her hitting my face.

_It's been three weeks since that little outburst.  
But I still find myself fingering that pale scar on my upper lip…_

Wait a minute. I have the same scar. I used to look upon it with revulsion, with the thought that a girl had successfully gotten her hands on me. A _Mudblood_ girl at that.

_I wasn't foul; I wasn't a loser.  
I was a Pureblood. She needs to be aware of that._

My heart starts to beat in my chest. This was exactly how I'd reacted years ago…

"_You wouldn't want her seen, would you?"  
My tongue slips slightly, but that is… okay.  
She doesn't suspect a thing, and neither does the two wankers she walls 'friends.'  
"… your knickers in midair. I'd get a laugh at that."  
She scowls. I grin. Wickedly.  
At least, I hope I did._

My fingers tremble. The Quidditch World Cup…

"_Is that Mudblood Granger?"  
I bite back a growl as Pansy openly criticizes her.  
She is breathtaking tonight. But I don't only notice that.  
The weasel is in an unnaturally surly mood.  
And that fucking Bulgarian Durmstrang fucktard's grin is reaching his elephant ears.  
"Mate, when I catch you eyeing up the Mudblood one more time, remind me to take the piss out of you."  
I grin at Zabini with relief.  
Yes, I would let him take the piss out of me…  
because I am doing it again._

Yule Ball…

The first few pages are filled with nothing but short scribbles of this bloke's time at Hogwarts with the said Mudblood. Frantic, and with my heart beating heavily upon the insides of my ears, I rush through the journal, the quick rustling of pages disturbing the silent ambiance of my office.

Why does this person – _why_ – does he have the same memories as I do of the Mudblood?

A few words catch my attention as the pages rustle.

_Rose Weasley, my daughter…_

_A week with her…_

_Her body is divine…_

I feel disgusted.

I come to a stop as soon as a sickening four-letter word greets me, feeling more bile rise up in my throat.

_Love._

_Suddenly, it isn't just lust.  
It's love.  
I love her.  
But I hurt her today.  
She says she never slept with Weasley, but I know better.  
I slap her.  
Over and over again.  
I couldn't help myself.  
I couldn't help the vile thoughts from forming in my mind…  
Weasley, making love to her…  
I slap her again. She stills.  
I am selfish.  
She is mine.  
Only mine…_

Page after page is seeping with uncontrolled, violent, unbridled emotions.

Emotions I am not familiar with…

Emotions I have yet to experience…

The emotions scare me.

With a jolt, I drop the leather-bound journal at my feet, and conjure my wand from the back pocket of my trousers.

"_Incendio_."

The journal quickly catches fire, but the flames die down as quickly as they have been conjured, leaving nothing in its place but a small pile of gray ashes.

With another incantation, I send the ashes outside my open window and scatter them off into oblivion.

Never to be read again.

But, ironically, never forgotten.

* * *

They say secrets have a way of surfacing to the top, but I choose to burn mine away.

Before they have a chance to sear me once again.

I would not make that same mistake again.

Nor would I acknowledge that I'd made that mistake before…

* * *

[A/N: What do you think of Draco's dirty little secret? :D don't forget to leave a review! Thank you! And thanks for reading! Hermione's secret is next. :) –Nina]


	20. Epilogue: Secrets, Part 4 (Lie)

EPILOGUE: Secrets, Part 4 (Lie)

I sneak a quick glance at the sleeping form of my husband, and am suddenly tiptoeing away from him and out the bedroom door. Upon reaching the banister in the upstairs hallway, I whip out my mobile and begin to dial the numbers I've memorized, although I'd only gotten hold of the numbers once in my entire life.

This Muggle contraption proves to be very efficient, although it is unnecessary in my world. My husband doesn't know how to use them; he prefers the good old owls. I keep them in case of emergencies like these and because my mother isn't too fond of birds squawking in her house, particularly her kitchen. I keep in touch with her and Dad by using my mobile.

I check the numbers once more on the colored screen to see if I got them correctly.

Once, twice, a third time.

I press the call button.

_Dialing_, my Blackberry flashes. I put it to my ear.

_Ring, ring, ring…_

"Good evening. This is Nina Serenuéla from International Biosciences, how may I help you?" drawls an almost-bored nasally female voice. She sounds sleepy.

"Hello?" I clear my throat, because my first hello doesn't sound comprehensible. "Hello?" I repeat.

"How may I help you?" says the woman. Impatient.

I probably sound like a retard to her, but I cannot help myself. My legs are shaking and my heart is thundering in my chest. My teeth are chattering inside my mouth, although the night is not too cold.

"M-my name is Hermione Weasley," I manage to stammer out.

"What can we do for you?" she repeats, almost snaps.

In the back of my mind, I consider reporting such rude behavior to the head of this company. I couldn't care less right now, though.

"I applied for a DNA test; I probably sent it roughly four days ago," I whisper.

My husband's snores seem to grow louder, a sure indication that he is sleeping soundly. I choose to lower my voice, as precaution.

I hear the slight shuffling of papers. "Yes, we do have a record from you here," the woman affirms. "Would you like to know the provisional standings of the results now? What you will hear would not be final, but it most probably would be –"

"No, no," I counter quickly, cutting her off. "I would like to ask something of you. A favor."

"And what would that be, Mrs. Weasley?"

My heart hammers in my ribcage.

"Whatever the test results might indicate, please, please, _please_ state that it's negative." I let the words rush out of me in one breath.

Silence is heard on the other end of the line as the woman assimilates my words.

"You are asking us to _counterfeit_ the test results?" clarifies the woman, enunciating each word slowly.

I lick my lips nervously. "Yes."

I envision the expression the woman might have on her face as she takes in my absurd request: firm, strong, unwavering. "Mrs. Weasley, our company strives to maintain honesty, integrity –"

"You have to do this!" I choke out, letting the woman hear just how much I need her cooperation. "My family – my life –"

"We give black and white results, Mrs. Weasley; there is no partiality –"

"_Please_." I sob into the mobile. "What if it was your family?"

My question stuns her. She is unable to answer immediately.

She regains herself. "I-I would live with my mistake –"

"Yes, _you_ would live with your mistake," I cut her off. "_You_ would accept your mistake. But you wouldn't allow your family to get hurt because of it –"

"I don't know for what reason you're doing this, Mrs. Weasley. Do you not realize that you could be filed with a case for obstruction of justice once this gets out?"

"I don't care," I state simply.

"Mrs. Weasley." She sighs wearily. "Don't you want to know the truth?"

The truth. It is a painful, yet necessary thing. Some people thrive in it, and some people choose to shy away from it. Sometimes because it's easier to accept lies.

"Truth is subjective." My voice cracks. "What if I tell you that I can do magic and I'm a witch? What if I tell you that I've helped in killing the darkest wizard who ever lived? It's _my_ truth. Yet you would adamantly state that I am lying."

"Mrs. Weasley, I –"

"Please," I implore, the urgency in my voice apparent. "My whole family is at stake of breaking apart because of this."

Besides, I don't want to end up any deeper… because I am already in too deeply.

The woman stays silent for so long that I check to see whether she is still there or not. She says she is; she's merely pondering my request.

"Alright," she says finally. "But this stays between you and me."

Relief bubbles in my throat. "Thank you."

I prepare to hang up, but she asks me a question.

"Don't you want to know the truth?" She repeats her prior question.

"I thought we've agreed on –"

"No," she assures me. "Just _you_. Just so you'll know whether Draco Malfoy _is_ Rose Weasley's father or not."

* * *

They say secrets have a way of surfacing to the top, but I choose the easy way for them not to.

I lie.

I lie to my husband, I lie to my daughter. I lie to everyone.

I lie to myself.

Surprising, isn't it? Because I always prided myself on integrity, on honesty, on truthfulness…

Love does that to people. It changes them.

* * *

[A/N: So… that's it. :D

Anyway, does anyone want to make a guess on who Rose Weasley's _real_ father is? I left a clue in one of the previous chapters if you must know! :D Chocolate Frogs to whoever guesses it right! :P

Also, I would like to say a HUGE thank you to one of my reviewers, **Logic**, for that review! It helped shape my new Dramione a lot, if you must know. I would've loved to send you a PM instead, but you're a guest reader, so… anyway, thanks again. :)

To the 100+ alerts, the 30+ favorites, and the 60+ reviews… thank you so much! :) wow, so this is what it feels like to finish a fic, haha :) I would love to hear your thoughts on this final epilogue. :) thanks for reading! –Nina]

* * *

Anyway, the first chapter of **Demolition Lovers** is up! It's AU, Voldemort won the war. (Draco still remains as an asshole here because I love his sarcasm :P) It'll be more of a tragedy than romance (I think). Hope you guys give this one a try… it would make me ecstatic if you did! (Besides, it's almost Christmas! :D)


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